There's no 'I' in Team
by Elinai
Summary: Katie Bell and Oliver Wood: they make a formidable pair on the Quidditch pitch, but it’ll take some convincing by the Weasley’s, Angelina and Alicia to prove they make an excellent pair off the Quidditch pitch as well. Hum, Rom, action.  Longish story
1. Daydreaming

**Summary**: **Katie Bell and Oliver Wood: they make a formidable pair on the Quidditch pitch, but it'll take some convincing by the Weasley's, Angelina and Alicia to prove they make an excellent pair off the Quidditch pitch as well.** Hopefully a sweet, funny story. When completed, hoping it'll be fairly longish. Not like War and Peace proportions or anything. Just not like 5 chapters or so.

Each chapter will be written first in Katie's point of view, then Oliver's. I hope it doesn't sound boring getting the same chapter twice, but they'll have different spins, perspectives etc. You can always skip Oliver's point of view, because Katie's the main character. I think. And sorry about the dodgy title. May I just say, I love this couple. They make such a cute pair. Rated for language, although I try to keep it limited to 'bloody' 'freaking' and 'hell.' My first FF, please don't kill me, but I always love feedback, about the plot, character, spelling, structure; don't care. I'll take whatever I get.

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Name: Katrina Anne Bell.  
Age: 16  
Hair colour: Annoyingly long and unfortunately blonde.  
Current mood: daydreaming  
Current location: Quidditch pitch, Gryffindor team practise

The wind whipped at my fluttering sleeves, forcing me to squint my eyes to keep an eye on the game. I would like to think that although the wind was ripping through my hair and tugging it from my ribbon, as a concession my hair was unfurling behind me like a triumphantly billowing banner. In my dreams. My hair is a nightmare. Well, that's what I like to imagine my hair doing, but most probably the wind was just snarling and snagging it so it resembled a plate of spaghetti rather than a proudly flying banner. Eh. Whatever. I had better things to worry about than the state of my hair. There was a tinge of coolness in the breeze, a forewarning of rain, or perhaps even snow. I love snow, although it doesn't bode well for the upcoming Quidditch game. I love the way snow lands on your face and melts down your neck, like a shiver. BAM!  
Out of nowhere, some unknown force belted me square in the side of my face. I shook my head several times to clear it, losing several feet in altitude as my broom slowly spiralled towards the ground. I hope no-one saw that. I especially hope that one person in particular didn't see that.

"What the hell, Bell? What were you doing, giving a weather forecast or playing Quidditch!" Wood bellowed from across the pitch, his voice so stubborn and obstinate it travelled over the roaring winds. Nope, he saw it. Fricken Scotsman sees everything. I pull my broom handle back up but make no effort to fly any closer to Wood.  
"I was waiting for you to get your arse into gear so we could make that play were _supposed_ to be practising!" I shouted back across the pitch. Across the field I could make out Wood's _game on_ face.  
"Here we go again," mumbled Alicia.  
"She gives as good as she gets," George grinned.  
"Well, you could have done something _constructive_ while you were waiting." Wood retorted.  
"I was," I snapped. "I was speculating about future atmospheric conditions." Wood didn't even skip a beat.  
"You mean you were day-dreaming about whether it was going to snow."  
"It would have a detrimental affect on our upcoming game this Friday, a dynamic which I think you should factor into the equation when determining our game strategy." Take that, NEWT boy. Oliver did look slightly taken back.  
"Well, you could have at least concentrated on dodging that Bludger." He finally conceded.  
"Yeah, sorry about that." Fred apologised as he whipped by me.  
Taking advantage of my moment of distraction, Oliver ploughed on. "That sort of behaviour could cost us the game, Bell." He lectured. Him and his bloody Quidditch. "At all times should you be aware of all players and objects around you." It was at this moment that Fred took it upon himself to aim a Bludger straight at Wood's back.  
"Fore!" Fred bellowed, right before the Bludger slammed into Oliver's back, knocking the wind out of his lungs and the insults out of his mouth. It would probably be unsportman-like of me to laugh at him. But what the hell. Ha. Score 1 to Katie Bell. Oliver Wood: 0.

Three hours later it had begun drizzling slightly, and we weren't wearing our heavier, thicker robes, so Wood called practice off. Although we were already an hour and a half over time. We'd missed dinner as well, and I had been looking forward to dessert. It was probably a new dieting ploy devised by Wood anyway. He was lucky he had such a dedicated team that loyally put up with all his eccentricities.  
"Good job, team." Wood enthused as we separated into different locker rooms. Yeah, not much of an incentive, is it? I honestly don't know why the whole team just doesn't mutiny against him, the amount of stuff he puts us through.

Angelina, Alicia and I traipsed into the hot showers, hoping to melt away the oncoming pneumonia. Angelina didn't even bother to take off any of her Quidditch robes as she slunk under the water, reasoning her robes were already soaked through. We all took our time in the shower, not wanting to disrupt dinner. The boys didn't mind showing up mud-streaked and filthy in all their manly glory, but Angelina and Alicia didn't want to know about it. Being fifth-years, they were all getting into the idea of dating, and being on the Quidditch team was certainly helping their popularity. Actually, I didn't want to burst their bubble, but dating and the emotional mind-games it seemed to hold nonplussed me a bit, but they got loads of enjoyment out of the whole idea of dressing up and looking pretty. It just seemed like a lot of extra work and worry.

"You just haven't found the right guy yet." Angelina reasoned as she pulled a brush through her wet hair, using her wand to dry it afterwards, steam rising from the ends. I gave up on my hair long ago.  
"And who have you found?" Alicia teased as Angelina blushed.  
"No-one yet. But I'm looking."  
"She fancies George," Alicia whispered to me, "Which is why she spends so long prettying up after practise. She doesn't like Gorgeous Georgeous seeing her all windswept and muddied after each game." Alicia's quick reflexes saved her from being mortally wounded by Angelina's airborne brush.

We trudged back out of the locker rooms half an hour later, changed and slightly warmer, with more of a spring in our step. That was, before we were assaulted full blast by the gale-force, bone-chilling winds that swept across the grounds, flattening the grass and almost bowling us back into the change rooms. All of Angelina's careful hair-styling would have been for nothing. I stole a quick look at her. Yep. Completely devastated. She fingered a lock of her already-snagged hair, a pout on her lips.

George gravitated to her side almost by magnetic force, eyes sparkling and insults on the tip of his tongue, but one Look from Angelina shut him up. If only the rest of us had that power. But only the power of Love would make George pass up an opportunity to make a joke at another's expense.  
"What are you still doing here?" Alicia asked as Fred put his arm around her shoulder. She raised an eyebrow then removed his offending limb from her person.  
"Why, my good ladies, when we noticed these rather atrocious winds, we took it upon our kind selves to escort you back to the fine establishment that is our beloved Hogwarts." Fred began walking Alicia up the path to Hogwart's entrance, using his body as a shield against the wind. I noticed this time when he put an arm around her, she didn't refuse.  
"Seeing as you are such delicate petals that could be blown away in such a puff of breeze such as this." George added, following suit. He and Angelina staggered bravely out into the winds.

Wood had his head down, hands shoved in pockets. No doubt he was worrying about what havoc the winds might play on our game, if they continued until the end of the week. He was probably re-formulating new game strategies we'd have to remember, and probably scheduling several hours of practise tomorrow. I felt momentarily disappointed that I wouldn't have a guiding arm to help me brave the winds. I hated the cold, and that wind cut right through cloth and skin and froze the bone. But I shrugged and stepped into the cold with my head down and hands in pockets, mirroring Wood. Harry flanked me on my left, worried about thoughts of his own. Poor kid. He shouldn't have to, but I knew he worried about You-Know-Who. For some reason Harry had taken it upon himself to be personally responsible for protecting Hogwarts – and possibly the rest of the world – from You-Know-Who. And I thought worrying about OWL's and the Quidditch game was enough. We walked in silence back to the castle as snatches of the other's conversations floated past us.

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Well team, what do we think? Oliver's POV next chapter :) 


	2. Worrying

Name: Oliver James Wood.  
Age. 17. And ¾. Not that we count that anymore, because teenagers are more mature than that. Ahem.  
Hair colour: Weird brown sandy colour. And quite messy at the moment.  
Current mood: Exasperated at the Gryffindor team in general and a certain Chaser specifically.  
Current location: Quidditch pitch.

She was day-dreaming again. I could tell she was day-dreaming; she tilts her head at an odd angle and has this cute, goofy smile on her face. I'm her Captain, I have to pick up on these things, okay? I have to know about this, so I can get up her when I catch her doing it. Sure enough, Fred sent a Bludger flying her way, and before I could even warn her about it, she copped it fair in the jaw. She had such a look of surprise on her face, I didn't know whether to laugh or streak over there to see if she was alright. So instead I just bellowed the first thing that came to mind.

"What the hell, Bell? What were you doing, giving a weather forecast or playing Quidditch!" It came out a bit harsher than I intended; I was still worried about how much damage that Bludger had done to her. Purely in terms of her Quidditch performance, or course, because I'm her Captain and I worry about things like this.  
Of course, she had to answer back. Obviously there was no permanent damage done. But damn her if at the end of the day she didn't have a point. She was right; there was a storm coming. I hoped it was nothing serious.

I called practise off when the rains came. I still harboured a fool's hope the storm would blow over. But I was sadly mistaken when I walked out of the locker room and was blown away by the force of the winds. I swear, I must be cursed. It was my last year at Hogwarts, I wanted my name on that cup. How was I going to get accepted into any of the half-decent professional Quidditch teams if my school team couldn't even win one match? Was I really that poor a Captain? I don't blame my team for our losses though, I blame myself.

It was only after we reached the warmth of the Great Hall I noticed how cold it was outside. I'd been too lost in worrying about my team and the game I hadn't even noticed we'd left the Quidditch pitch/Angelina, Alicia and the Weasley's were chatting as usual unconcerned, but Bell was frozen to the bone. I wanted to hug her, wrap her in my arms and warm her. Instead I put a hand lightly on her shoulder and she spun as if I'd cursed her.

"Make sure you look after yourself." I told her. I was worried perhaps my tone was too concerned. My brain went into damage-control. "I don't want one of my Chaser's out of the game with a cold." Smooth, Wood. She just smiled wanly and disappeared behind a painting that took her to the Gryffindor landing. If I could kick myself, I would.

Memo to self: Fred Weasley is going to pay for that Bludger to the back during practise today. Big time. And seeing as I can't tell the two twins apart, George Weasley is most likely going to end up paying too. He probably deserves it anyway. What am I saying, he's George: of course he deserves it.


	3. Flobberworm Mucus

**Many thanks to my reviewers! Note the plural!!! I'm ecstatic. **

**I'm also doubly excited: I'm going on holidays to ENGLAND in a few days! (I live in Australia). I'll get some real inspiration from the real UK. **

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Name: Katie Bell  
Age: I think we're all aware I'm fifth year, okay?  
Hair: Most likely looking like the love child of a brief but intense union between an octopus and shag-carpet.  
Current Mood: I WILL EAT YOUR HEAD OFF SO DON'T BOTHER ME OKAY  
Current Location: In bed, asleep. Or trying to.

"Oi, Bell!"  
"Where's the fire," I muttered, before my brain sort of spluttered awake. Well, it jump started anyway. But one look at my Quidditch Captain standing over me got my heart well and truly racing.  
"WOOD!" I screeched, "Why the Hell are you up here!" I bought my doona further up to my chin, although I wear perfectly decent Magpie's pajama's to bed. I tried to force some hysteria out of my voice, "This is the girl's bedroom. How did you get up here? The stairs aren't meant to let you." I eyed him warily, taking in his bright scarlet Quidditch robes that were almost blinding my poor, tired eyes. With his windswept, mussed hair and crooked grin, he looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine advertisement. Stupid Wood. I noticed that his broomstick was in one hand, and he was holding it out at me, as if to prod me awake again. Or to keep his distance from me. I wouldn't blame him. I was a living embodiment for the reason they invented caffeine.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine." He laughed. I usually don't feel up to either murder or joviality this early in the morning, but I could cheerfully throw him out the window right about now.  
"What do you want, Wood?" I muttered.  
"You." He replied simply. Holy hell, I think my heart just stopped, and I don't know why. I thumped my chest several times, trying to start it beating again. "Practise started half an hour ago. Everyone's waiting." He explained, looking at me like I was slightly mad. And with that he zoomed through the open window and out of my room. Oh. So that's how he got in here. Smart-arse.

We stood in the middle of the pitch, wind whistling around our ears and stinging our eyes. Our hair whipped around our face like the Whomping Willow's branches.  
"Alright troops," Wood began, flying back and forth in front of us like an agitated hummingbird, the wind pushing him diagonally down the pitch. It would have been comical, if he wasn't deadly serious.  
"This isn't a war Oliver," Fred reasoned.  
"YES IT IS!" Wood bellowed. We were all taken slightly aback. "And Ravenclaw's the enemy. Even the weather is against us. Everything's against us. In fact, if they're not with us, they're against us."  
"Did he hit his head or something?" Alicia whispered to me. Before I could even reply, Wood turned on her.  
"What was that?!" He barked. Alicia noticeably cringed. I mean, Wood was extreme, but he usually wasn't this extreme until the last match of the season. "100 stomach crunches. Now Spinnet." He growled. Woah…talk about scary…  
"Wood," I reasoned. The more level-headed of the team (hey, Fred and George made up almost half the team, so of course I would be more mature than them) I could usually appeal to Wood's deeply hidden logical side.  
"What Bell?" He almost snarled. I recently got a detention from Snape for wandering the Halls after Quidditch practise yesterday, which was technically Wood's fault. I took the fall for him, and what thanks do I get? I've had enough snippy, snappy people yelling at me, and it's only first week back. If Wood can take his frustrations out on us, why can't we do the same?  
"That's out of line Oliver James Wood, and you know it."  
"You know what out of line is, Bell? Out of line is talking back to your Captain."  
"Captain? More like dictator." I huffed.  
"Bell, respect for your Captain, and respect for the rest of your team's morale. 100 push-ups ought to go some way to teaching you what I can't."  
"What?!" I screeched  
"Care to make that more?"  
"Why the hell not?"  
"Double!" Wood roared triumphantly. Damn him and his competitive nature.  
"That all?"  
"Triple."  
"Why not –"  
"Wood, any more and you'll kill her. You'll snap her little twig arms in half." George reasoned. The Weasley twins, the voice of reason (?!!). Wood rounded on him, nostrils flaring.  
"300." He said finally, "She'll do them after practise, so she won't take up any more time." And with that we kicked off furiously into the dark sky.

Practise was hippogriff dung, to be completely honest. Complete and utter flobberworm mucus. Wood had explained the plays to us in the quiet of the locker rooms before practise had officially begun, but we were all struggling not to fall asleep. Wood was one of them. He kept losing his place and repeating his sentences, voice fading each time. Those of us still awake were listening to the wind thrash against the roof of the locker room. This is what nightmares are made of. And when we got out onto the field, none of us could remember the plays, blow us down.

Yeah, literally: blow us down. It took us about five minutes to push off from the ground. We had to wait for the wind to change directions. And with each passing minute, a vein in Wood's neck was throbbing larger and more frequently. This did not bode well for the rest of the team. Actually, it didn't bode well for Oliver either; if this wind didn't let down in the next few minutes he was going to have a coronary or something. And you know what, I'd leave his sorry arse here. I'm sure as hell not dragging him back up to the hospital wing.

When we finally managed to get our broomsticks airborne to at least several feet, from then on it was like the wind was playing a game with us, moving us around the pitch anyway it pleased. We got pelted not only with Bludgers, but with sticks, branches, roof tiles: anything not firmly Charmed down. It was like running the gauntlet or being a human dartboard. Plus, it was pointless trying to practise Wood's plays even if we remembered them. Every time I tried to throw a Quaffle to Angelina or Alicia it became more of a case of trying to chase it down than to purely catch it. And when it comes to throwing, I'm no weakling. My arms groaned with the effort of steering my broom on a straight course. Doing 300 push-ups was going to be freaking horrible.

Half the time we were blown out of the actual Quidditch pitch. We couldn't even _hear_ Wood, which is a tribute to how forceful those winds must have been, but you sure as Hell don't hear me complaining if it means I don't have to listen to Wood whinge. I could see his jaw work though, so doubtless he was still yelling at us. Actually, I think he was just yelling for the sake of yelling. I think it was his form of therapy; dealing with his issues and working through his Quidditch game anxieties. As long as he wasn't giving me any more push-ups.

We lost Harry about an hour in. And then Fred hit a Bludger with all his might, but the wind suddenly kicked up and sent it right back in his face. We tried to catch him as he fell – almost every training session someone falls off their broom, so this is the one manoeuvre we have down-pat - but the wind blew him off-course. Eventually he ploughed into me and we both spiralled down into the soft sand at the base of the hoops. At least we landed somewhere within the Quidditch pitch. The rest of the team followed suit, except Wood who remained, still screaming at the wind. He waved his arms about frantically, making obscene gestures at the wind. He appeared to be trying to throw the wind back or something, like how you try to scoop the ocean out of your drowning sandcastle. It was a fruitless gesture and an utter waste of time, but I think it was some sort of intense personal competition between him and the forces of nature.

Alicia looked a bit cut that she hadn't been the one to save Fred, so I let her take him to the hospital wing. Small things. Angelina followed Alicia, and naturally George dogged her footsteps. I had no clue where Harry was. I wasn't even sure if he was in the country anymore.

Sighing, I rolled up my sleeves and dropped to my knees. No, I wouldn't do sissy push-ups. I elevated myself onto my toes. One…two…three

At 154, Wood dropped silently to the ground next to me. For some reason, he was barefoot. I was pretty sure the wind wasn't blowing hard enough to de-shoe anyone, but hey, I've been wrong before.

"You don't have to do them," Wood croaked hoarsely, voice stolen by the wind. I just kept on going. I made a commitment, and I'm going to follow through. Even if it killed me. 155…156…157

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And now Oliver's POV to try to explain why he's being such a prick :) 


	4. Bowtruckle droppings

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Name: Oliver Wood.  
Age: Look, I'm almost 18 okay? I was just born late in the year.  
Hair: Sexily windswept in the way all those other guys who don't play Quidditch try to copy with their hair gels and potions. Suckers.  
Current Mood: Euphoric. Boy is Bell going to get the surprise of her life when I wake her up.  
Current location: 80 feet in the air, halfway between the castle grounds and the Gryffindor wing of the castle.

Angelina and Alicia could have woken her up, but I volunteered. I was going to scare the bejeebers out of her; I made so many plans and ideas as I flew over to Gryffindor tower. I loved teasing that girl. I don't know why.

Or course, I knew the stairs wouldn't let me in (been there, tried that), but I knew every way into the ladies wings of the tower. (Don't ask; you don't want to know. I wouldn't mind telling you, but you wouldn't want to hear.) But once I saw her, all curled up in her doona, I didn't want to wake her. I tried to shake her softly, but she threw her arm in front of her face, almost slugging me in the nose. At five o'clock in the morning, Katie Bell is anything but soft, quiet and gentle. Okay, plan B.

"BELL!" I yelled. "Katie!" Nothing. I prodded her several times with the end of my broomstick, standing a few safe feet away. "Oi! Bell!"  
"Where's the fire?" She muttered. Today was obviously not her day. Little did I know, soon today also wouldn't be my best day either.

Practise was horrible. I hadn't slept at all the night before; I had been devising new strategies and game plans over and over. And the annoying thing was I don't think the rest of the team cared. I mean, I know it was early, but… And then Bell got all defensive, and I just let my nerves get the better of me. I never expected her to follow through, but we locked horns, and I just couldn't back down and before I knew it I have given her 300 push-ups. Well technically she _asked_ for 200 of them. I decided I better work through this tension and just start flying; it always calms me down. Not today.

Today was…beyond words…Bowtruckle droppings. I was yelling at Spinnet and Bell for throwing the Quaffle like girls, but they either couldn't hear me or chose to ignore it.  
"Johnson, as a small secret just between you and me, unless you sprout wings in the next few minutes, you're going to need that broom to help you fly. So stop falling off it. Bell, you throw like a girl! And I don't care if you are one, it doesn't mean you don't have to throw like one. Spinnet, you couldn't catch Dragon Pox if you spent all day with Bill Weasley! Weasely, get a haircut! Both of you. And Harry! Potter, where the hell are you, you worthless bludger! You should probably get a decent hair cut too. Bloody hell." And so it went. Until I eventually rounded on the weather, the real cause for the reason I was being such a prick. "And you! Don't even get me started on you!" And then what I think may have been Fred or George's Beater's bat hit me square in the face. I don't know if they threw it at me or the wind had snatched it off them. But that was _it_. I snapped. I threw it back at the wind. The bat flew right past me again. I wrestled off a glove and threw that. And then the other. And then my shoe. And then other. Anything I could get my hands on. "GAHHHHHH."

One hour later my voice died. And with it so did my spirit. I looked around me. I couldn't see any of my team. I glanced down at the ground. I could see a patch of scarlet, so I decided to end practise. It was almost time for classes to start, and I don't think the rest of my team was here anyway. Pikers. I was shocked when I landed to see Bell. She was doing push-ups. Proper push-ups. Bell always slacks on push-ups, that's why I thought she wasn't serious during our little argument before practise began.  
"You don't have to do them," I croaked. I could feel the back of my throat closing up in pain. But she kept on. And when I left the locker rooms, she was still going. And I waited and watched where she couldn't see me. She did all of them. All 300. And she never once slacked off. She'll be feeling that tomorrow.


	5. Meeting with Marcus

**Hey guys – I'm back! England was great! The story will pick up soon, right after the failed first Quidditch match with the Dementors. But for now, just setting up the characters some more I guess. **

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Name: Bell. Katie Bell.  
Age: I'm feeling like I'm about 94 at the moment  
Hair: Better than this morning at least.  
Current Mood. Dead tired.  
Current location: Third row from the back, between Angelina and Alicia, Transfiguration class.

When I tried to pick up my quill in Transfiguration, my arms wouldn't respond. Stupid Oliver Wood and his stupid stupidity. If he was such the sporting gentlemen everyone claims he is, he wouldn't have given me those push-ups. Despite my death-looks, my arms just sat limply on the desk. Stupid arms. I gave up pretty quickly on them; I know a lost cause when I see one. So instead I stared at my ink-pot, willing my quill to move. It did, surprises of surprises. That's right, because I'm a witch. I can perform magic. I keep forgetting that.

I Charmed my entire Transfig notes using that locomotis Charm. Flitwick would be proud. Of course, my writing was so shaky I could barely read it, but I got out of detention with McGonagall. She just walked passed me, raised an eyebrow and continued on her way. I think after however many years she's been here, she's seen it all. Or she'd rather not get involved.

I had Potions next, but it was pointless to go to Snape's class, where we were expected to cut and slice things and stir our concoctions when I didn't even have full control over my limbs. So instead I cut class and went to see Madame Pomfrey, who tsked me as usual and gave me some sort of ointment. It burnt hot then went icy, but after that I could use my arms normally. Oh well, no sense in going back to Potions now. Instead, I completed my detention, polishing all the suits of armour in the Great Hall. By the time I finished that I need another dosing of Pomfrey's magical muscle ointment. The annoying thing was half of the suits of armour squirmed and claimed I was tickling them. Peeves burst out of one of them, but after some colourful threats from both parties, he left. Unfortunately to be replaced by someone much worse.

"Well, well. A Gryffindor Chaser. Think how _tragic_ it would be, should one of those suits of armour _happen_ to fall on her, rendering her incapable for the next Quidditch match." I knew that rasping voice. Marcus Flint. I turned around, hands on hips, cleaning rag and polish still in hand. "And to think, such a tragic accident could have been so easily avoided." I narrowed my eyes.  
"I'm not going out with you, Flint." I finally replied. He'd taken it upon himself last year to start this. It freaked me out more than his usual threats of violence. He pushed some of my hair behind my ear.  
"Pity." He breathed. I was just so repulsed, so freaked out, I acted out of instinct. I threw the cleaning polish into his eyes. He hissed sharply, clawing at his eyes with one hand, back-handing me with the other. I stumbled back against a suit of armour. It swayed worryingly, but stayed in one piece. He was in too much pain to try anything else, and he just stumbled off into the direction of the dungeons. I shakily made my way to my next lesson. What a great start to the new school year. The next day was even better.


	6. Foreboding About Flint

Name: Captain Oliver Wood. Hey, it has a nice ring to it.

Age: Old enough to know better.

Hair: Sexy, as always

Current Mood: Wary. Having a death-stare match with Marcus Flint across the Potions dungeon. I hope he chops a finger off while he's slicing his rumplesnork. That, or I hope his potion blows up. Slimy bastard.

Current Location: Potions class, somewhere in the bowels of the castle.

There's something about that bastard Marcus Flint I just don't trust. Apart from the fact he's our chief rival team. Apart from the fact he's in Slytherin. Apart from the fact he has bad teeth, bad skin and even worse hair. And apart from the fact he's in general, a slimy bastard. There's just something about him. He always tries to sabotage my team before the season even begins. Hexes, jinxes, blackmail, threats stealing team plans, he's tried everything. I've had a few run ins with that bloke before, and I know he doesn't play fair. I just wonder what he's up to. Slimy bastard…


	7. The Howler

Name: Katie Bell  
Age: Way too young to be subjected to this  
Hair: Caught sight of it in the goblet. Lookin' good  
Current Mood: Fighting growing, irrational panic. Oh God, oh God, what the hell have I done to deserve this.  
Current Location: Great Hall.

I got the Howler that morning. I was sitting at Breakfast, Alicia on one side and Angelina on the other, waiting for the mail. When the scarlet envelope was dropped in front of me, I was so sure it was a mistake. I mean, I know that sounds uppity and egocentric, but I didn't think I'd done anything wrong.

"You better open it," Alicia hissed.  
"I could Charm it silent for you," Angelina suggested helpfully.  
"Don't!" George shouted, throwing himself over the table and Angelina as if protecting her from a grenade.  
"He tried the Silencio Charm last year," Fred muttered through his mouthful of toast. "It only magnifies louder. Left half of Gryffindor deaf for days."

I shakily opened it, completely dumbfounded as to what I'd done to deserve it.

"_Katrina Anne Bell!"_ My Mother's voice shrieked. Holy sweet Flobberworms, was I in deeeeep Mandrake shit. When my mother uses my birth name, I know I'm in serious trouble. When she uses my full name, I'm freaking doomed.  
"_I just received your report card_." I felt anger bubbling up inside me, even underneath all the fear and shame of receiving a Howler first week into the school year. Mind you, Ron received one yesterday, so it's becoming a bit of a routine affair.

But where does my mother get off, lecturing me about my grades? She left school at got married when she was 16! What would she understand; she'd never gone to any magical school. She wasn't even a Muggle – she had the choice, but she chose not to. No sense of adventure, for one thing. But one thing's for certain: I wasn't going down without a fight.

"Way to go mum." I challenge the screaming Howler, "It's only been sitting unopened on the kitchen bench for these last three months. Way to pay attention to your daughter's life!" I yelled back. It actually floated in the air in silence for several moments, astounded I'd answered back.  
"_I am sorely disappointed in you young lady."_ It finally offered, picking up where it left off. Please, please don't shout out my grades. I sat stubbornly, crossing my arms and averting my eyes as if she was really standing over me in person.  
"_You're failing Potions_." Dammit. I drowned out her shrieks of protest.  
"Unless you're in Slytherin, who doesn't fail that subject?"  
"_I don't care!_" It screeched back.  
"I know you don't. You never even show an interest!"  
"_I'm not having any of this cheek Missy. Ever since you've gone to that school you've been getting it into your head that you're too big for your britches. Hanging out with wrong people no doubt. You're failing Potions, Transfiguration and Herbology."  
_"Do you even know what those subjects are!" I bellowed back, getting to my feet to face the Howler head on.  
"_I don't have to know what they are, but I know you're failing them. If I don't see an IMMEDIATE, DRASTIC improvement within this term, you're not playing that silly Quidditch game anymore_." Slytherin let out a cheer. And with that little victory the Howler tore itself up, floating down into my hot chocolate. I stormed out of the Great Hall, leaving Alicia, Angelina and the Weasely's sitting in silence, peering morosely at my mug.


	8. New Game Plan

Name: You may address me as "sir"  
Age: Born in1988 - A fine vintage.  
Hair: As sexy as the rest of me. Which is to say: very.  
Current Mood: Vaguely amused and slightly deafened  
Current Location: A few seats down from Bell.

I was awakened this morning by Bell having a domestic with her mother's Howler. I mean, who in their right minds crosses blades with a HOWLER? The amazing thing was, Bell actually rendered it speechless for a good five seconds or so. I choked on my coffee and spilt it all over the _Daily Telegraph_. George complained bitterly when the hot chick that had been on the front page hurriedly dived out of the picture.

Now, Bell's stubbornness on the Quidditch pitch is to be admired. If Harry hadn't shown up when he did, she'd be our next Seeker, because once she's locked in on something, she does not give it up easily. Maybe it's not obstinacy. Maybe it's loyalty. Whatever it is that makes Bell Bell, it makes it difficult to argue with her and come out the winning side. It's infuriating. Annoying. Endearing. Charming. It makes her as scary as hell at certain times of the month.

But I was worried about what effect that Howler would have on her. She may be pig-headed, but she knows when someone makes a valid point. It's just, study has never been her strong point. She's a bit of a day-dreamer, with her head up in the clouds. And when her head's not up in the clouds, the rest of her is. Maybe I've been making her practise too much.

But I know Bell – she's a hands on, practical person. If she doesn't see the point of doing something, she won't do it. That's not to say she's not smart or capable: she's incredibly quick witted. She's perceptive too; she knows more about any other Quidditch member's weakness than their coaches do. I run most of my game-plans past her first, because she'll pick up the flaws before anyone else, quite often me included. I would run all my game plans past her, but I come up with some of my game plans quite late at night and early in the morning, and one time when I paper-airplaned them to her, she set them on fire.

But, in all truth, mostly Bell has a one-track mind. And to complete the enigma that is she, when she's not hell-bent on something occupying her thoughts, she's up in the air, completely distracted.

So I had to come up with a strategy to keep Bell in the game, so to speak. I think sport's metaphors have become permanently ingrained into my psyche.


	9. Study Buddy

Name: Seriously thinking about changing it at the moment.  
Age: 16  
Hair: I don't freaking care anymore  
Current Mood: Hoovering between murderous and melancholic. Wishing I could disown my mother.  
Current location: Charms class, 2nd row, mid centre.

"Cheer up," Angelina offered as we sat down to Charms, one of the few subjects it seemed I wasn't failing. _Just give me time though_, I thought bitterly. "We could go out if it makes you feel any better." She suggested.  
"How could we get to Hogsmeade?"  
"Fred and George have ways and means," Alicia smiled, tapping her nose knowingly. Being friends (or more than friends) with the Weasley twins certainly had there occasional benefits.  
"No thanks," I finally mumbled. "I should probably take my Mother's advice and study. It is our OWL year, after all." My Mother did have a point: I knew when someone made a valid point.  
"Pffft and piffle," Alicia shrugged. Whereas Angelina was quite prim and proper in her manners (old wizarding family) Alicia was a bit more like me. "It's the first week, what work do you possibly have?"  
"And remember, homework for next week is a six-foot scroll on the Charming Charm," a beaming Flitwick chimed in as the bell sounded for the end of class. I sighed. _And so it begins_.

I spent that night in the library, next to Hermione. I was struggling through Potion's homework, completely at sea seeing as I'd missed the lesson that morning. I desperately wanted to ask Hermione, but she seemed snowed under already, almost hidden behind mountains of scrolls and battlements of books. Actually, I think she was doing Ron's homework for him too. Awwww. I'll have to keep that in mind. That's so sweet, although those two fight like cats and dogs.

Plus, the proud side of me argued, it would be damn-right degrading to ask a third-year to do a fifth-year's homework. Damn right degrading… Although… I know Hermione's more than capable: I walked in on Moaning Myrtles bathroom last year when they were brewing the Polyjuice Potion. And she would love the challenge: nerds thrive off things like that.

I gave up. I was grasping at straws. I was a bad person. Homework completely transformed me into a selfish monster. I thunked my head down on the table, completely beaten. I was just staring at my blank parchment for the seventeenth minute when the chair in front of me pulled out, and Oliver Wood sat his handsome self down. Hey, I'm just making an objective observation. It doesn't mean I'm interested. Because I'm not. I blew a lock of hair out of my eyes, unimpressed. He rested his chin on the desk, eyes level with mine.

"So you're mother's not very pleased with you at the moment." He finally offered. Well, big whoop: all of Hogwarts knew that. It felt weird sitting in the library talking to Oliver – this was the only conversation I think we'd had that didn't make some mention of Quidditch in the initial sentence. Although I suppose it came down to me still being able to play Quidditch, when you thought about it.  
I blew my errant hair around my face some more in answer to his statement.

"I could tutor you." I coughed and almost inhaled my hair.  
"What?" I spluttered.  
"I know I'm not exactly brainiac material." His voice was still all husky and hoarse from training yesterday. I snorted – Wood, brainiac? "But I never failed Herbology in fifth year." He countered pointedly. I shut the hell up. "I won't get you top marks, but I've done the work before. I can at least explain the concepts for you. I'm not that bad a teacher - I coach you for Quidditch and you at least seem to know one side of the pitch from the other." Was that an insult? I think he was a bit cut about my earlier snort. "So hopefully you'll take something into that thick head if I tutor you."  
"Don't you have NEWTS to study for?" I ask waspishly.

Instead, he just gently placed a finger under my chin, slowly lifted it up and slid the empty parchment out from underneath it. I hoped he couldn't hear my heart thrashing wildly against my ribcage.

"Bell, I'd do anything to keep your annoying self on the team. And there's practise tomorrow morning, as usual." He even managed to say this with a lot less hysteria than usual, considering the game was only two days away. He must have been practising in front of the mirror. "Now, do your Charms essay," he mumbled, quill between teeth as he pulled some thick books towards him.  
"Yes Captain." I replied, too grateful to manage anything else.


	10. Sleeping Beauty

Name: Whatever you want it to be, darlin'  
Age: See above  
Hair: You can look, but you can't touch  
Current Mood: In serious emotional turmoil.  
Current location: Katie Bell's bedroom (that got your attention, didn't it? Pervy bastards.)

I promised myself I wouldn't do the work for her. But she looked so overwhelmed. She looked like she was shackled to the desk. If any person was born to fly, it was Bell. I love Quidditch, but I think Bell likes the thrill of the flight more than the dynamics of the game. So I did the Potion's essay for her, but I Charmed it so she'd at least have to read it first before my ink would show up on the paper. I'm no Hermione Granger, but I know a few well-placed spells or two. To be honest, most of spells I know are more along the lines of jinxes and hexes for when I come into contact with Slytherins, but it's something. At least 7 years of education isn't totally wasted.

Bell fell asleep half-way through her essay, the ink smudging her cheek where she rested on the desk. I couldn't leave her in the library. Besides, it was getting cold, and I know Bell can't stand the cold. She has an aversion to it; she rugs up like a marshmallow at the first flake of snow. And I couldn't have my best Chaser catching the chills, right? So I gathered her up and took her up to her room, tucking her in and everything. I knew she wouldn't wake up: she's slept through just about everything I've subjected her to during three years of early-morning practises: the girl sleeps like the dead.

And I was going to walk away. I told myself to walk away as soon as I'd done what I said I was going to do. I placed her on her bed. Job done. But she looked cold. So I shut the window. I could go now. But she still looked cold. So I pulled the heavy doona over her. Mission completed. But I stopped for one moment, just after placing the blankets over her shoulders. I just stopped to savour the moment, I guess. To brush a lock of hair away from her face. So it wouldn't tickle her nose. I mean, if there's one thing I hate, it's an itchy nose. She should be thankful I was such a considerate Captain. Because that's all I was to her, right? That's what she said.

"Oliver." She mumbled, and I froze, thinking I'd woken her up. But she just sighed and burrowed into her pillow further. Okay, she was asleep. I shouldn't read too much into that one. I mean, I've had some weird dreams before, and they've meant absolutely nothing. It is certainly not my dearest wish to fly around on a hippogriff dressed like a pirate, tolling a bell and singing at the top of my voice,  
"_Tally-ho dearies and candle-wicks, Snape and Flint are massive pricks_." Although, maybe there's a disturbingly inordinate amount of truth in that dream than I originally gave it credit for.

Regardless, I went to sleep that night with a grin plastered onto my face, and it stayed there all night and into the next morning. And then Bell wiped it clean off my face.

**

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**


	11. Running Quidditch Practise

**Hey guys! Audience participation time: I'm entertaining the notion of changing the story's title from "_There's no 'I' in Team_," because it's a pretty amiguious title that has nothing to do with the story. I was thinking of changing it to something along the lines of "_Keeping Score_" coz, you know, they're always scoring points off each other coz they're so competitive and, yeah, they play Quidditch, and yeah, you know... Uh, well, it sounded better in my head...Yeah...Just let me know what you think.**

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Name: Katie Bell THE GREATEST  
Age: 16  
Hair: Sloppily plaited.  
Current Mood: Holy freaken freak I am a genius  
Current Location: Wood's room, stealing his broomstick. 

Using infallible Katie Bell logic, I woke up early this morning and decided if Wood didn't have his broomstick, he couldn't come to practise. Okay, it'd take more than a missing broomstick to put him off his game, so to speak, but I woke up in a mischievous mood this morning.  
Wood had the hangings around his bed closed, so I couldn't even see what he looked like asleep. Not that I cared or anything. I mean, I'm sure he looked cute when he slept, so I sorta wanted to know what he looked like… I don't know. I just wished I could see his face as I soared out of the window and onto the Quidditch pitch on his broomstick.

Everyone else was already on the pitch, in various stages of consciousness and Quidditch robes. The Weasley twins still had their pajamas on and had half-heartedly draped their robes over them.  
"Where's Wood?" Fred yawned sleepily as I descended off the broom.  
"Wait, is that his broomstick?" George asked. I just grinned.  
"Wood's had some unforeseen problems and asked me to take over training today." The Weasley twins high fived as the rest of the team cheered. "Okay, boys against girls. Girl's are going to whip you guys good." With no Oliver to guard the boys' hoops, this was going to be a knock over.

We were winning 780 to 110 (Harry makes a pretty damn good Chaser and Keeper) when something rammed into my back, almost pulling me off my broom.  
"Damnit Fred, watch where you're going!" I snapped, before I spun my broom around. To face a very annoyed Oliver Wood. I don't actually think I've seen him more annoyed in my entire life, even including all those times we've lost Quidditch games. Which is a few.  
"Bell, what the hell are you playing at?! You are aware we're only days away from the game, and now you're gallivanting around, wasting our precious practise time!" Well excuse me. My rational, logical self told me that now would not be a good time to answer him back. Not now he's all worked up. I should just have my small victory and we should all just get back on track for some serious practise. Serious my arse, scoffed my stubborn side.  
"Wood. It's 5:30 in the morning. The whole Quidditch team is out on the Quidditch pitch, in their Quidditch robes (in Fred and George's case, sort of), with their Quidditch gear, playing Quidditch. I'd call that fairly satisfactory Quidditch practise. Which I'd say would be a hell of a lot better than what you would manage. If it were you running this practise we'd still all be half asleep in the locker rooms listening to some of your plays, where we have to do sloth rolls and starfishes just to keep hold of the Quaffle. It's Quidditch, Wood, not rocket science. Lighten up." That vein was throbbing in Wood's neck again. Eh.  
"Bell, you're suspended from practise. You can wait on the benches until after we finish." I threw my Quaffle at him in disgust. He caught it (damn it. I so did not see that one coming) and pegged it back at me. I wasn't fast enough to catch it and it clocked me fair in the side of the face. Wood tried to hide a grin, but he didn't do it fast enough.  
"GAHHHH." I shrieked, heading straight for him, still seated on the broomstick. For the second time that day I tackled him knocking him clean off his broomstick. Unfortunately, I also fell off mine.  
"Someone really should stop them before they get hurt." Angelina offered dully, before magicing the ground softer for our landing.

Let me just say, Angelina could have Charmed the ground a little bit softer than what she did. Oliver and I tumbled heavily to the ground. I fell on top of him, my elbow winding him.

"Ooof." He breathed. I was fine; he cushioned my landing.  
"You, Oliver Wood, are a right royal Scottish bastard." I huffed, planting my knees either side of his chest and slapping him across the cheek. Actually, he looked pretty cute up close. He had that sort of confused quizzical look on his face. I watched the red hand-mark from my slap flush across his cheek and felt sort of bad. Ruining a face like that, if only for a few minutes. I don't know why, but I leaned in a bit closer. Perhaps to inspect my handiwork. Perhaps to try to rub the red hand-print off his cheek. I don't know why really.

And then guess what Wood did? Guess? He socked me one in the eye and I rolled off him in shock. That fricken kilt wearing bastard Scotsman gave me a black eye. I think he was aiming for my shoulder, but I don't care. I was playing nice: I was only slapping. Now I was going to pull out the big guns.

"Oww. You hit me." I accused. Wood looked like he might be thinking about apologising, if he could catch his breath. I don't care. He struggled to rise, managing to lift himself up onto his elbows. If that's how he wants to play it, Katie Bell has a few power plays of her own. Still upright on my knees, I head-butted him in the stomach, winding him again. He wrapped his muscled forearms (somebody's been hitting the Hogwarts gym on the forth floor) around me and wrestled me back. If he uses this as an excuse to feel me up, I have absolutely no qualms about kneeing him in the ball-sack.

I dug my heels into the ground and we both struggled to our feet, still arm-locked and attempting to wrestle each other to the ground.  
"I swear Bell, if there's so much as a twig out of place on my broomstick, you'll be doing drills with a medicine ball for the rest of the week."  
"Wood, it's a flying branch. Relax. You need to find yourself a girl, mate."  
"Maybe I've already found one. Or several." I just snorted in contempt. Sure. When house elves fly.  
"Oliver Wood, you're too obsessed with Quidditch to ever have a girlfriend."  
"I'm the Quidditch Captain, Bell. I have a commitment to Quidditch. And I'm the Captain, so stop trying to ruin practises and steal my broomstick. I'm Captain. Me, Oliver Wood. Not you. Say it! Wood is the Captain!" He grunted, like the egotistical maniac he is. When I refused to repeat what he said, he snuck in a dirty punch to my kidney's that made my knees buckle. If he was going to play dirty...

Oliver Wood tensed for a split second then went limp, collapsing to the ground.

"You…kicked me…in the balls." He finally choked out.  
"Um…er…ouch…well then…I guess practise is postponed…indefinitely." George said, wincing in sympathy for Oliver.  
"I don't think there'll be any little Wood's flying around on miniature broomsticks anytime soon." Fred voiced.  
"You may all thank me later." I panted. I won! I am victor. Fred and George backed slowly away from me, fear and respect in their eyes.  
"Practise… 4 o'clock… this afternoon," Oliver wheezed with superhuman effort before Fred and George took pity on him. They hoisted him to his feet, marching him back to the castle, supporting him between themselves.

Katie Bell: 3. Oliver Wood: We'll give him 1 for giving me a black eye. Scottish bastard.


	12. Ruining Quidditch Practise

Name: I'll kill her  
Age: She's dead  
Hair: Feels sexy  
Current Mood: Bell stole my broomstick  
Current Location: Storming around my broom.

I swear, I never know what the hell is going on in Bell's head. My grandmother would say she suffers from flights of fancy. My great-grandmother would say she has the devil in her. I'm leaning towards my grand-mother's analogy. For no good reason Bell broke into my room and stole my broomstick this morning. As it was I'd already overslept on an early-morning Quidditch practise I myself had called. Talk about embarrassing. And as I reached into my cupboard for my broom, I realised. Bell stole my broomstick. Not even Fred or George Weasley had that much of a death-wish to even consider touching my broom.

Bell had kidnapped my broom. I've seen that girl fly: she has no sense of self-preservation. She's been through more broomsticks than I've had broken bones. She flies like a maniac. Now, I usually encourage this on the Quidditch pitch – she's our most unpredictable flier. You never know what the hell she's going to pull. But not with MY BROOM.

When I finally got out onto the Quidditch pitch, Fred, George and Harry were having their arses handed to them by my three Chasers. It was embarrassing for the whole male species. Only Harry played half-way decently. That boy is a one-man Quidditch team at times, I swear. It was good though, because Fred and George needed some humility to ground them. Unfortunately, so does Bell.

I got hold of one of the spare brooms from the boy's locker rooms and flew up there, intent on teaching Bell a lesson. Right at the last second I decreased speed, deciding against knocking Bell off her – MY – broomstick, because we were sort of 20 feet or so up in the air. Either that, or the spare broom was like 50 years old and couldn't go any faster anyway. So I just bumped her a bit.

Bell wheeled around, fire in her eyes. Ah, my little hell-fire shows her true colours. "Dammit Fred, watch where you're going!" She yelled, eyes widening and a guilty look flashing over her face when she realised it was me. Now it's time to teach Katrina Anne Bell a lesson in humility. First, a little guilt trip, I think.

"Bell, what the hell are you playing at?! You are aware we're only days away from the game, and now you're gallivanting around, wasting our precious practise time!" She looked a little hurt I was targeting her specifically, and I felt a little bad. But not for too long.  
"Wood," She had her sarcastic, screwed up, constipated face on now, "It's 5:30 in the morning. The whole Quidditch team is out on the Quidditch pitch, in their Quidditch robes, with their Quidditch gear (_FALSE – the Weasley's were in their pajamas. Score 1 to me_), playing Quidditch. I'd call that a fairly satisfactory Quidditch practise. Which I'd say would be a hell of a lot better than what you would manage. If it were you running this practise we'd still all be half asleep in the locker rooms listening to some of your plays, which would consist of us having to perform sloth rolls and starfishes just to keep hold of the Quaffle. It's Quidditch, Wood, not rocket science. Lighten up."

Hang on, this wasn't part of the plan. I was supposed to be making her feel bad, not the other way around. Bell is the only person in the known world that can do that that to me. I can stay up all night and devise the most perfect, fool proof Quidditch game plan, guaranteed to win us every match of the year hands-down, and then in a few short seconds over the breakfast table, Bell can pick out at least a dozen faults with it and send me crashing and burning back down to earth. So yeah, I was sort of pissed off she was criticising my Quidditch plays in front of everyone. There's a time and place for everything, and it was not here.

"Bell, you're suspended from practise. You can wait on the benches until after we finish." So I can spend all of practise time thinking of some smart-arse comments to finally beat you at your own game.

Now, I may not be able to beat Bell, but I know my own team members. I pretty much anticipated her reaction. She pelted her Quaffle at me. I caught it easily. Score one for the Keeper. I pegged it back at her. She missed. Ha! Score two for the Quidditch Captain. And then she did something I didn't quite foresee. She charged at me on her – MY – broom, launching herself straight at me, and as we crashed to the ground my life flashed before me. I saw every Quidditch game I ever played, in minute glorious detail… Damn, in second year I made the best save _ever_ against Ravenclaw…I should really teach the team that move…Damn, I look good in scarlet robes…

I landed heavily. Bell landed even more heavily. On top of me.

"Ooof." I choked. This would have to be the one scenario in the whole world where having a girl on top of me was not what I wanted. And then she purposefully dug her elbow in hard between my ribs as she struggled into sitting position. Still on top of me. If I wasn't in so much pain, I would be worried about having kinky dreams about my best Chaser. But I was in far, far, FAR too much pain for that thought to even cross my mind. Admittedly, the thought flittered across my mind. Very quickly. Just once. It crossed my mind so fast it barely had time to register. So it doesn't count. I mean, I think I just cracked a rib. And Bell was trying her hardest to bruise a few more.

"You, Oliver Wood, are a right royal Scottish bastard." She managed to raise herself to sitting position, but she made no attempt to stop straddling me. By now the pain was receding slightly, and that bloody sexy thought involving Bell sidled more slowly across my brain. Lingered, more like it. And then she slapped me. Thank Merlin for that. I was supposed to punch her in the shoulder in retaliation. I tried. But bloody hell, she was sitting over me and all I could think was:

_Bell has boobs. Okay, try not to look at them. I mean, you're at a pretty good angle to check them out, but under no circumstances are you allowed to. She is your team member. And she will kill you. Several times over. Do not think about it, Wood. You're already having inappropriate thoughts. Just get her the hell off you. Punch her in the shoulder. And make sure you don't hit her in the boobs, for Merlin's sake man. Aim higher! Higher!_

And that's how I accidentally punched her in the eye. At least it got her off me. I could think clearly again. And I could breathe a bit too, that was also helpful. It was completely and totally an accident, as you can see. But there was no way in hell Bell would think it was an accident.

"You hit me." She said in a small hurt voice, more like a question, like she couldn't believe I'd hit her. She unconsciously raised her hand to just underneath her eye. Merlin knows she's deserved a few well-placed punches over her lifetime, but bloody hell, with that look on her face I just wanted to hug her and apologise profusely several hundred times over.

I was just about to take her into my arms when she head-butted me in the stomach. Okay, I know now I definitely have a shattered rib or two. And I so did not want to hug her anymore. I wanted to strangle her. Holy hell did that hurt like hell. Instinctively, years of wrestling with my brothers took over. I wrapped my arms over her back and pushed her backwards. So, technically, Bell got her hug after all. It seems Bell must have brothers of her own or something, because she shoved me right back. Stubborn mule that she is.

"I swear Bell, if there's so much as a twig out of place on my broomstick, you'll be doing drills with a medicine ball for the rest of the week." I threatened.  
"Wood, it's a flying branch. Relax. You need to find yourself a girl, mate."  
"Maybe I've already found one. Or several." I shot back defensively. Bell just snorted in contempt. I should be offended. Bell is quite a tomboy, and at times I think it's cute. It's certainly better for the team if she's not concerned with girl stuff all the time: apparently Cho Chang cries every time she breaks a nail during practise. But to be honest, snorting is not Bell's most endearing habit.  
"Oliver Wood, you're too obsessed with Quidditch to ever have a girlfriend."

Okay, she has a point there. I've had a few girlfriends over the years, but they tend to fade away when the Quidditch season begins. But I'm Captain, I have a commitment to my team and my house.

"I'm the Quidditch Captain, Bell. I have a commitment to Quidditch. And I'm the Captain. Me, Oliver Wood. Not you. Say it! Wood is the Captain!"

Now, I'm a Quidditch Captain for good reason. I have a very competitive nature. And unfortunately, at times that competitive nature may get the best of me. For example, it means I never back down from a fight or an argument, when for various reasons I should. For example, I shouldn't have picked a fight with Flint last year because I was heavily and obviously outnumbered. And right now, I should back down a bit from this fight with Bell, because I easily outweigh her and if I don't stop now, I'm going to get too caught up and end up injuring her.

That logical reasoning was all well and good, but before I could help myself I sort of accidentally-on-purpose hit her in the kidneys. Whoops. I knew I'd end up injuring her sooner or later. I hope I didn't hurt her too much.

HOLY BLOODY HELL SWEET MERLIN AND MARY MOTHER OF GOD. She kicked me in the balls.

"You…kicked me…in the balls." I choked out in a small, hurt voice; more like a question of disbelief.  
"Um…er…ouch…well then…I guess practise is postponed…indefinitely." George peered over my prone form, wincing in sympathy for me. Yeah, we've all been there: feel a brother's pain.  
"I don't think there'll be any little Wood's flying around on miniature broomsticks anytime soon." Thanks Fred. I hope you get dragon mumps off Bill and can never have children either. It would save the next generation having to put up with another dose of Weasley pranks.  
"You may all thank me later." Bell panted. I've created a monster. That girl is evil incarnate.  
"Practise… 4 o'clock… this afternoon," I managed to wheeze. That is commitment for you. I wasn't going to be able to ride a broom for weeks. Fred and George dragged my sorry carcass off to the castle to Charm some peas frozen for me.

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**Next chapter: Katie's got to find a way to cheer Oliver up after they lose the Hufflepuff match. Hmmmm...**


	13. The Game

**YAY - The long awaited Quidditch match, where I've promised to ratchet things up a notch with Katie and Oliver. Jeez, I use a lot of sports clichés and mixed metaphors – I should be ashamed.  
****Apologies for the lateness of this update: long story. Moral is: BACKUP ALL YOUR FILES SACRED AND PRECIOUS TO YOU. In the unlikely yet horribly unthinkable event which involves the alliteration consisting of "computer" "completely" "cooked" and "cactus". **

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Name: Katie Bell  
Age: (sigh) for like, the 20th time, I'm 16, believe it or not. Born early, I was  
Hair: Doing its own thing, as always  
Current Mood: HOLY HOLY HOLY BEJEEBERS. (Scared $hitless, in case you couldn't tell)  
Current Location: Under the grand stands of the Quidditch pitch, just minutes before the first game against Hufflepuff.

I don't think I've ever been more scared in my life. Including all the other games, including the time I fell off my broom in the middle of that snow storm in my first year of playing Quidditch. I don't know why I was so nervous. Maybe it was because it was our last year with Oliver as our Captain, and I didn't want to let him down. I knew Quidditch wasn't the be-all and end-all of Wood's life; but it played a pretty important part. As in, if he had to write a list of life priorities, Quidditch would maybe settle in as second – second only to breathing, and even then it was probably a tie for first. Wood was playing out his life with a level head, keeping his options open, doing well at school and all that, but if he didn't get into a profession that involved flying, he was going to kill himself. And I'm being serious. Quidditch was Oliver's life.

The storm was back. And it was back with a vengeance. As soon as I stepped onto the pitch, a bit of my nervousness seeped away. I couldn't even see Fred and Alicia standing either side of me. No-one would be able to see how we played. No-one would be able to see if we remembered Wood's bloody Hawksbury Hawskhead Formations or whatever.

We were hammered by the weather out there. It was raining, it was hailing, it saw snowing, I swear I got pelted by icicles as well. It was a colossal tribute to our team that we were beating Hufflepuff. All things considered, we were on fire. Well in all this rain, we were sparking, at least. Smouldering even. We were winning, and then the Dementors came. One flew right past me, almost knocking me off my broom. I don't know what the hell was with those things or what their story was, but I knew they were creepy, and they were not interrupting our Quidditch match. I flew right at it, intent on tackling it into submission. But then I flew right through it. It was like flying through a ghost, only fifty times colder. I have ice-frosting all in my hair. Oh yeah, that's right. We learnt that in forth year Defence class that Dementors are insubstantial. Stupid me.

And then in a flash of lightening I saw Harry actually fall off his broom. The fog rolled over again, obscuring Harry from sight. Even if I could track his fall in this storm, there was no way I could catch him in time. But then right before he hit the ground he sort of went in slow motion or something. And then we all raced to the ground and Harry's side. I didn't even the game was over and Hooch had declared Hufflepuff had won until we were in the Hospital Wing.

"Where's Wood?" I asked.  
"I think he's trying to drown himself in the showers." Fred offered morosely.

That's how Oliver Wood faces defeat. He hides. Coward. I stormed down to the guy's change-rooms.

"Oliver James Wood!" I screamed, storming into the showers. Then scampered right the hell back out. I could tackle dead, corporeal floating Dementors head-on, but walk in on a naked Oliver: no way.  
"I have clothes on." Wood managed a chuckle.  
"Right," I said. "I knew that." I marched right back into the showers.  
"How's Harry?" He muttered before I could pick up where I left off.  
"He's...fine." I was about to yell at him for abandoning his team, when I realised Harry was fine. It was Wood that wasn't. "How are you?"  
"Not so fine." He finally offered. He sighed and leant further back against the shower wall, a fine spray of water coating his hair, making it sparkle. Damn, that guy has beautiful hair no matter what you do to it.

"I know I've been pushing you guys, perhaps more than what's fair on you. It's my last year to win this thing, and I've been selfish. I know winning means something to you, but it means a hell of a lot more to me, for very different reasons. It's not just a stupid inter-school competition, it's my future. I'm trialling for Puddlemere United soon, and they're a very old, respected team. I know they trial on talent alone, but it would look so much better for me if I was Captaining a team that has a few trophies behind them. But look what happened; I push my team too far and almost kill my Seeker."

"Oliver, it's not your fault."

"I could have postponed the match, but I trial next week. I wanted a win behind me so bad." He looked like he was about to cry. I didn't know what to say. I leant my head against him, and he automatically raised a hand to stroke my hair. It was just so natural, it was like instinct.

He looked so sad. He looked like a lost boy. I didn't know what to say, and I'm never at loss for words. And then I realised words weren't going to make him feel better. It would take more than words. And I don't know if I'd be the person to offer that.

I raised my hand to trace a bead of water down his face. He softly took my hand, face turned to mine, eyes dark.

* * *

**BWHAHAHA – Evil, Evil Cliff-hanger! Give me one good reason why I should give you all Oliver's perspective now. Have you been good? Smah: I won't keep you on tender-hooks in case the build-up overshadows the event, and the next chapter is an anti-climax. All I'll say is: I like to tease ;)**


	14. The Prize

Name: I'm so worthless I don't deserve the title of Captain  
Age: Who cares?  
Hair: Absolutely sodden and plastered to my face. Definitely not sexy-hair  
Current Mood: Deflated. Depressed. Devastated.  
Current Location: Guy's locker rooms, trying to drown myself in the showers.

If I wasn't so sure those Dementors weren't already dead, I'd kill every last one of them. They cost me my Seeker, they cost me the game and they cost me my career with Puddlemere United. The only good thing about that game was watching Bell try to crash tackle a Dementor. Only that girl would do something that crazy and cheer me up.

But even Bell's antics couldn't keep my sane for long. I spazzed out a little in the locker rooms. I kicked a few things. I broke a shower tap and sent cold water spraying straight into my face. That sort of cooled my temper down a bit. I made one last kick at the wall and slipped on the tiles, crashing to a heap in the freezing cold puddle of water. And I didn't even have the spirit the get up.

And then in stomps none other than Bell. I had a feeling her temper was going to rival that of the storm's we just played through. But then she takes one look at the showers and turns on her heel. I think in her anger to track me down and give me a piece of her mind, she forgot that being a guy's shower room, I may actually be showering. I swear, that girl has a one track mind.

"I have clothes on." I even manage half a grin. So she marches right back in, all inflated and ready to tell me what a jerk I am. But then she takes one look at my pathetic self and sort of deflates. She takes pity on me and sits beside me. She asks me a bunch of questions and I reply half-heartedly.

I'm a horrible person. I'm a horrible person, not only because I pushed my team too far for my own selfish means, but I'm a horrible person because I should feel guilty about that, but at the moment I can't stop looking at the drops of water on Bell's lashes. She leant her head against my shoulder and I reached up to stroke her hair. I love Bell's hair.

I dropped my arm and let in her lean in closer to me. She was freezing; I could feel her cold seeping into me, and I was the one sitting under a jet of cold water. She is a magnet for cold: she stores it or something, I swear. Whereas the cold doesn't affect me at all. Go figure. She absent-mindedly traced a water droplet down my jaw. It sent shivers up my spine and made my stomach burn all at the same time. My hand sought out her own.

Heaven help me, she was looking up at me with those massive blue eyes, framed by the dark lashes with those water droplet clinging to them. It was a very good thing I was sitting under a cold shower. My eyes dropped slightly to her lips, and I could see they were tinging blue. She must be freezing.

_Warm her up, doof-head_, my brain told me. I don't need telling twice.

And then Marcus Flint wandered into the boy's locker room.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Flint sneered. I personally think it was pretty damn obvious, but this guy isn't known for his brains. We both clamoured to our feet, sort of embarrassed and defensive. I was going to thrash Flint during our next Slytherin/Gryffindor game. Bell shivered next to me. I was really going to have to get her back to the castle before she died of hypothermia.

"Come to gloat, have you?" I snapped at him.

"Yes indeed, but it seems I may have found more than I bargained for." At first I thought he was just referring to Bell and I, but then I notice he was staring rather hard at Bell. And that's when it hit me: he was checking her out. His filthy eyes were roaming all over her body. She was just as soaking wet as me, and those robes were revealing an awful lot of shape now that she was standing.

"Hey, Flint, think fast," I said. Years of instinct and being on a Quidditch team made him wrench his eyes away from Bell. And then Flint made possibly the best catch of his miserable life. His face caught my fist square on. It appears Flint didn't think fast enough. But then again, this guy isn't known for his brains, like I said.

Bell gave me a small smile of thanks, and for that I would have taken on the whole Slytherin team barehanded. Which I've attempted last year, and didn't really emerge from that the victor.

Instead, I put one dripping arm around her and we squelched back to the castle.

* * *

**Yeah, I'm evil. And my English teacher would kill me for those short paragraphs.   
So, who wants to abuse me for drawing out the inevitable Katie/Oliver kiss? Call me a Romanticist, but I'm a big fan of the chase and the build-up, as I've mentioned before. I want kisses to be fire-works. Kisses have to be earnt. Or won. But I am expecting some abuse over this delay of afore-mentioned lip-locking and tonsil-hockey. I'm prepared. Go on and hit me with your best shot. (Yeah, groan: more sport's cliches)**


	15. Detention

Name: We'll move onto first name basis hey? It's Katie  
Age: If you don't know by now, I give up  
Hair: Angelina braided it for me :)  
Current Mood: Death to Herbology! Seriously contemplating setting the Greenhouses on fire, only I actually like Professor Sprout. Even though she's failing me.  
Current Location: Library.

"Bell…" Oliver begun, interrupting my concentration. I was hunched over my Herbology essay and Wood was on the other side of the desk, madly scribbling down Quidditch manoeuvres, drawing lines and arrows with great gusto and flourish.  
"What?" I sighed. I was in the middle of drawing the Horrible Hornucolous devouring Professor Sprout. It wasn't helping me write my essay on "_How to prune the Horrible Hornucolous without needing several blood transfusion Charms_," but it was letting me vent.  
"I'll do your Herbology homework if you look over these Quidditch plays for me?" He even gave me Scottish puppy-dog (Scottish terrier?) eyes. Not that that what even required. I practically launched myself over the table to get to those game strategies. Anything apart from Herbology.

"This drawing is pretty good." Wood commented after several moments, crooked grin on his face. Perhaps he doesn't like Sprout that much either.  
"Mmmmhmm." I muttered non-committedly, Charming out a few of Oliver's arrows. Flint was left handed, so we shouldn't aim to the left all the time. And it seemed Wood thought there was triple of himself to guard Gryffindor goals at one period of time. I alerted him of my discovery.  
"Oh yeah, I was going to do that double-figure-eight move."  
"Well, you'll have to practise your turns. You're getting sloppily." He just grinned, shook his head and went back to work on my Herbology essay. Ha, Wood really got the short end of the stick there, having to write an entire Herbology essay. I could proof his plays all night. All freakin night.

"Bell, go to bed and get some rest." Oliver's voice jerked me awake, and my knees thumped on the bottom of the desk. Ouch. I twitch something terrible when people wake me up.  
"Fine." I mumbled and shuffled off to sleep. I mean bed. Whatever.  
"Bell."  
"Mmmm."  
"The exit to the library is the other way."  
"Mmmm." I dimly noticed he laid down his quill.

"Do you want me to make sure you get there safely, and not walk out the second floor window?" My sleepy brain detected some amount of concern behind those words of sarcasm.  
"Nep." I mumbled. I should have made Oliver escort me. Because, as it turns out, I did need someone to make sure I got to Gryffindor safely.

I was probably half-way to Gryffindor tower, and I was so tired I didn't even care about Snape or any other patrolling Professors. Yesterday we'd lost our first ever match of the season, and I was a little down. 'Down' was nothing in comparison to how Oliver was feeling. I think he was in either the first or second stage of grief recovery. You know: shock, anger, denial, bargaining, depression, guilt and acceptance. I don't think he'd ever get to the acceptance stage.

I was a lost in these thoughts when I slammed into a solid wall. I didn't know there was a wall there, I thought stupidly. I know I'm half-asleep, but I usually manage to avoid solid objects. But it turns out it wasn't a wall. Two arms snaked around me, drawing me closer.

"Oi!" I yelled in shock, trying to step back. The person just shoved me rougher into them.  
"Katie, Katie, Katie." Hissed Marcus Flint, hot breath on my ear. "I saw you yesterday, and I can't seem to get you out of my head since then."  
"Get off." I tried to wriggle out of his grasp.  
"That's right. Just keep squirming. I like it." I stopped stock still. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.

Okay, it was time to end this, seeing as he obviously wasn't getting the message. I might be failing most classes, but if there was a class at Hogwarts that specialised in hexes and jinxes, I would be top. Except for Fred and George, but they're a year above me anyway.

I felt my back jeans pocket for my wand. My wand. My wand was currently on the library table, next my Herbology books. Back with Wood. Frick. When I felt Flint's hand slide over my jeans back pocket, I stopped worrying about a wand. I raised my hand to slap him, but he caught it easily.

"That's not very sportsmanlike of you," He grinned, shoving me back into a wall. It hurt like hell, and my back gave a small crack of protest. "Just one kiss, Katie, and I'll get you out of my head." Sure, I'll give him a kiss. A Liverpool one. His disgusting face was so close to my own, it was just too easy to slam my forehead down on his already tender nose.

He screamed like a banshee and fell back into a tapestry, which must have some hidden passageway, because Flint tumbled out of sight. Well, I think he disappeared from sight; my head was throbbing and I was having trouble with my vision.

"Gahhhh." I breathed, clutching my forehead with both hands, bracing myself against the wall for support.

I was in a darkened hallway at about one in the morning, well after lights out, in so much pain I could barely move. A shadow moved across my line of vision, blocking out the dim light from the torch several feet down the corridor. I was so getting a detention.

* * *

**Scribe of Aurora – thanks for pointing out my boo-boo's. The first was intentional – I've noticed a few writers have made Katie a year old to be the same age as Angelina and Alicia, and to make the age gap between Oliver and her less noticeable.  
****The second was me being lazy, and I apologise for it. I recently moved for school and don't have any of my HP books for reference, so I guessed. And guessed incorrectly. So just imagine the Fred-Angelina, George-Alicia pairings however they are in the HP books.  
****Ditto with the Charlie-Bill error about dragons. I have no head for names, I swear. **


	16. Intervention

Name: Oliver Wood, saviour of all womankind.  
Age: Devilishly just right  
Hair: Just plain devilish.  
Current Mood: Slightly breathless  
Current Location: In some hidden room on the fifth floor Fred and George told me about.

I spent all day during class coming up with some new Quidditch plays, and there was only one person who could read over them for me. Bell. And at nine o'clock at night, there'd be only one place she'd be. In the library, wading through some homework. Sure enough, she was there, trying vainly to do some Herbology essay. Instead, she was drawing Sprout being eaten by what appeared to be the Horrible Hornucolous. Damn. That was a pretty decent drawing.

She crashed just after midnight. Poor kid. I gathered up our Quidditch plays (they are _sacred_ and must be guarded by myself at all times) and then sent her off to bed. I should have walked with her to her dormitories. I know I should have. It's just, that Herbology essay was harder than I remember it being. Okay, well, maybe I would have finished it sooner if I hadn't been distracted. Bell was distracting me, okay. Don't ask me how, she just was. But five minutes after I sent her away, I _knew_. Something was wrong. Something had happened to Bell. I _sprinted_ out of that library to find her.

I found her on the fifth floor landing, leaning against the wall, clutching her head and moaning.

I shook her by the shoulders. "Bell? Bell? Talk to me. What happened?"  
"Nothing." She said thickly, pinching her nose between her fingers.  
"I'm your Captain, and you'll damn well tell me what happened."  
"I ran into a wall." She finally offered. B.S. I can read my Chaser, and that didn't happen.

Smooth, Wood. Your one chance to play the hero, and you arrive too late.

"What's goin' on 'ere?" Came that sharp, shrill voice of Filch's. It raises the hairs on the back of your neck and makes your balls shrink back inside you, I swear. I grabbed Bell's elbow and sprinted the length of the corridor, only stopping to throw her behind some hanging Persian rug thing George had told me was a good spot if I wanted some alone time with …I forget what her name was. Henrietta Herbowitz perhaps. Unfortunate last name, but that girl could kiss.

"Give me a look at that." I whispered as I cupped Bell's chin under my hand and pushed her fringe aside. Her whole forehead was red and swelling. Perhaps she really had run into a wall. I muttered a Charm I'd learnt was good against stopping swellings and bruises.

She settled her head against my chest weakly, struggling to catch her breath.

"Thanks for that," She mumbled the words against me, each breath sending shivers tumbling down my spine.

I huffed and puffed, catching my breath in a victorious manner. Take that Filch. He gave me detention once in first year, and I was not keen to repeat that torture any time soon. I waited fifteen minutes or so (about ten minutes longer than absolutely necessary, to be honest) and then whispered, "I think the coast is clear." But she'd already fallen asleep against me. I'd have to put her to bed again. I was starting to see a pattern here, and I wasn't complaining.


	17. Blind rage

Name: Katie Bell, person with still possibly the worse migraine in the world  
Age: Too young to have to suffer through this  
Hair: Loose. Brushing it hurts my head  
Current Mood: I am going to KILL that kilt wearing bastard Scotsman. As long as I don't have to exert myself too much.  
Current Location: Just after Herbology, roughly one week later.

Oliver James Wood is a dead man walking.  
He didn't do my essay. Well, not properly. This is what he wrote:

"_How to prune the Horrible Hornucolous without needing several blood transfusion Charms_," by_ Katrina Anne Bell (_grrrr)

_Step one: Make sure you don't do this:  
_[insert my picture of Sprout being messily devoured by the afore mentioned Horrible Hornucolous.

Wood had also helpfully labelled my little diagram, drawing those damn arrows he was so fond of to point to _Professor Sprout_, and _HH, the man_.

For that, Sprout gave me detention. Trimming the Horrible Hornucolous, so I could learn how to prune it 'first-hand.' She smiled nastily at this. But she kept my essay. ("For all its crudeness, it does have a point. And you are an exceptionally good drawer, Miss Bell.")

Oooh, he is soooooo unbelievably dead. Practise is this afternoon. He is deader than road-kill at a Vampire convention. Provided the Horrible Hornucolous doesn't kill me first.


	18. Blind panic

Name: Oliver Wood, the soon-to-be-departed.  
Age: Too young to die  
Hair: Thankfully it'll leave this world looking damn fine, as always  
Current Mood: Blind panic  
Current location: Racing around my room, looking for Bell's Herbology essay.

I, Oliver James Wood, am a dead man walking. I didn't do Bell's essay. Well, actually, I did, but I handed in the wrong one. See, I liked her drawing so much I keep her little sketch. I had been distracted that night in the library. Bell's hair was trailing over the desk, and it smelt like raspberries. RASPBERRIES. How is a man supposed to concentrate?

And then by the time I got Bell into bed and tucked in, I was completely exhausted. So I went down to the library and gathered up her stuff to do at a later time. And I did, I swear I did. Not that Bell will believe me. I wrote a better essay, but I think, in all my stressed-out stupidity, I handed her the wrong one. I've just got so much to worry about. My trial for Puddlemere is tomorrow. But Bell always reads over her essays before she hands them in, I tell her to. Otherwise she won't learn anything, and then she won't pass her exams and then her mother won't allow her to play Quidditch. Right? So she'd know that Herbology essay was the wrong one? I hope to God so.

Well, I guess we'll find out at practise.

* * *

**Just a short chapter this week. Of course, I **_**may**_** be persuaded to write more and do another chapter post sometime this week. So, persuade me. I'm listening. I'm listening **_**intently**_


	19. Falling for Oliver

**Okay, you guys asked for: here's your reward. This chapter's a biggie to make up for last chapter. It would have been up yesterday, but yeah; unforeseeable circumstances. Many thanks to all who reviewed to get this chapter up early – this one's for you. Bonus points for ShadowedDark and Mariano's-twins, whom both made the cheeky comments on the lack of material to review. Also kudos to Emz, whom gave a very constructive review. I love when people tell me what works and what doesn't. That way I can make the story better :) **

Name: Katie Bell  
Age: 16  
Hair: Fluttering in the breeze – Not in the pretty way. It's probably forming matts and knots as we speak.  
Current Mood: Harbouring murderous intentions towards a certain Gryffindor Scottish Captain  
Current Location: Quidditch Pitch, halfway through drills.

Obviously, Wood had a death-wish. He made us Chasers practise passing with medicine balls. UNCHARMED medicine balls. I lost five feet of height every time I had to catch one of those suckers. And every time I dropped one, I had to fly all the way down to get it, do 20 push-ups, and fly back up again. And then he made us PLAY a whole Quidditch match using the medicine ball as a Quaffle. No Gripping Charms. No Floating Charms. Nothing.

Fred and George didn't have it easy either. Wood charmed the Bludgers smaller, faster and lighter, so the Weasely's had to improve their aim, and hit the things harder because they were so weightless. And you think he'd go easy on Harry, wouldn't you? I mean, he's already got the fastest, smallest ball to catch. You know what he did? He made it even SMALLER and FASTER. Now Harry'll never find the freaking Snitch, and we'll never finish this freaking game and finally finish freaking practise. I know it's because Wood's freaking out that he's got Puddlemere trials tomorrow, on top of trying to recover from last week's Quidditch loss. I tell you, that man is a walking basket case.

We eventually won the game when Fred Summoned the Snitch and surreptitiously passed it to Harry, who looked like he was about to sob with relief. I know real Quidditch equipment was Charmed so it couldn't be tampered with, but this was just the practise equipment. If Oliver had done it, so could Fred. I swear, I could kiss that boy sometimes. It looked like Angelina was going to anyway.

"Oi, Oliver, we've caught the Snitch!" George bellowed.  
"Really?" Oliver asked, surprised. He loved to set unobtainable, impossible goals, so he was shocked we actually managed to achieve something. Albeit, with Fred's help.

"Where's the Snitch?" Wood asked suspiciously. Harry handed it to him. "There's nothing in your hand." Wood accused. Harry pointed to a small speck on his palm. "Ah-ha. There it is. My mistake. Well, since you finished that game in record time (three hours), I'll just run you through my latest plays for the game against Slytherin." We all groaned. Wood continued, unperturbed.

Fifty freakin minutes later:  
"…And then, we soar through the air, form a pyramid and Angelina and Bell perform a sloth-roll in unison and –"  
" - Oliver, what is this, a Quidditch play or dance choreography?" George muttered.  
"Quidditch _is_ dance," Oliver sniffed. "It is _art_." Whatever. Quidditch is brutal. Wood just can't see that. To him, Quidditch is the most beautiful art form on the planet.

And so, at like, eight o'clock at night, in pitch blackness, we're meant to be practising Oliver's stupid intensely and insanely-complicated play. He's Charmed our robes and the Quidditch balls luminous with some form of the _Lumos_ charm, and put little blinking lights on our broomsticks so our brooms resemble car's head and tail lights. They even turn red when you're breaking, like a real Muggle car.

"Bell! You dropped the Quaffle. AGAIN. What do I have to do, hex you another set of arms?" Wood bellowed in frustration. I don't see him trying to do a stupid Belosofski Pivot. No. But I bit my tongue to stop myself mouthing off. He's obviously stressed out about Puddlemere try-outs, and if making us his whipping dogs will make him feel better, I'll take one for the team any day.

Two hours later it was bordering on plain ridiculous. The illuminating charms on our robes and the balls had faded to practically nothing. We were stumbling into each other in the dead of night. I had fallen off my broomstick 54 times: more times than I'd ever fallen off my broomstick previously in my WHOLE LIFE. And I've made some classic stacks in my lifetime.

The reason I keep falling off is at this one point in the game, I'm meant to stand up on my broom like a Muggle surfboard so I can make this incredibly complicated pass to George, of all people, who'll hit the Quaffle with his club to Angelina. Whatever. At least we're practising with the proper equipment now, not medicine balls and faster Bludgers. Wood got the idea off Harry two years ago, and we all saw how brilliantly that turned out. I mean, Harry caught the Snitch and all, but he did the worse stack of Hogwarts history and left a skid mark of about thirty feet on the pitch turf, and lost about sixteen inches of skin. Not to mention he almost digested the Snitch.

Plus, I may fly like second nature, but standing on two feet, I have no sense of balance whatsoever. And whizzing around at great speeds on a broomstick firmly wedged between two legs and hands is a _completely_ different matter to whizzing around at great speeds on a broomstick with NO HANDS. Or legs. Alicia and Angelina managed no worries. The zoomed past me, gloating and skiting.

"Look Ma, no hands!"  
"Johnson, cease and desist." Oliver barked.  
"Wood, why can't Angelina or Alicia do this play?" I whinged.  
"Because I want you to!" Wood roared back.  
"I'll end up killing myself." I pouted.  
"I don't care, as long as you make that play!" My pouty lips weren't working on Oliver. He wasn't having any of that. I heard him mumble to himself, "Do you think they allow ghosts on the team?"

Take one for the team my sweet arse.

"Wood, if there's one person here who should be dead, by rights it ought to be you!" I shriek, flying up to him (ha! I _do_ have the balance to handle this surfboard thing. Perhaps this play of Oliver's isn't so stupid after all). I prodded him with a finger for each of my last seven words. "You got me a detention with Sprout." I shove him hard.

"Well, did you read the assignment before you handed it in? Didn't think so." He smirked, shoving me back twice as hard. I was still standing on my broom in that stupid way Wood was trying to teach me. I have now reinstated it back to a stupid manoeuvre. I almost toppled to the ground, some good ten to twenty-odd feet away. After I regain my balance I lay into him again.

"I shouldn't have to." This time I barrelled into him, using my broom's flight momentum as extra force. "You're supposed to be my friend, and that was a low, nasty trick."

"Uh, guys," Angelina began. "This is not a good idea."

"Bell," Wood sighed trying to sound mature, "I'm not getting into an argument with you about this. It's not even Quidditch related." I could make it Quidditch related. "Let's just sort out these plays on the pitch while it's still light (It was ten o'clock at night) and then we can sort this out later."

I just threw my Quaffle at him again in disgust. And he caught it _again_. Much to my disgust. "There's nothing you can throw at me that I can't catch, Bell." He grinned arrogantly.

It was at that moment that a Bludger soared straight into me. I heard George utter a few sharp curses, but it wasn't his fault. We'd all lost sight of the Quidditch balls several hours ago. I think Harry was halfway to the moon by now, trying to track down the Golden Snitch. And Wood used to swear he'd never let that thing out of it's cage if it was even so much as approaching dusk. Shows you how desperate and stressed out he was over the whole professional trial thing tomorrow.

Now, for the record, usually it takes more than just an errant Bludger to unseat me from my broom, but seeing as I wasn't actually SITTING on my broom, I was still STANDING on it, and that's a whole different kettle of fish.

I had all these thoughts in my head as I was falling because, let's be honest: I fell a long way. And the landing hurt like hell. I swear I had little Golden Snitches flying around my head.

There were several soft thumps over several bodies hitting the ground quite hard as they sprinted over to me. Oliver reached me first. He grabbed the front of my robes roughly. Ow. If this was Wood's idea of being gentle with an injured person who's sustained possible concussion and multiple fractures, I… yeah. Can't think of anything else to say other than thank God he's not seriously entertaining notions about being the next Madame Pomfrey as a future career choice. Or if he is, he's hiding it well.

"Bell, I couldn't see you fall, I didn't know where you were." Wood explained hysterically. Yeah, that's because his stupid illuminating Charms wore off hours ago. I tried to tell him that but all the air had been knocked out of my lungs, and I was having difficulties breathing more in.

"Hey Wood," I manage. "I thought you said you could catch anything." Ha. It was meant to come out as taunting but even to my ears it sounded pitiful and weak. My breath caught in my throat as I felt my rib shift, putting a lot of pressure on my lung. I don't think it should be doing that... Wood looked panicked. He had his fingers trapped in my hair, and another hand scooping my neck, supporting it as he tried to raise me to a sitting position. It hurt. I don't remember crying out, but Wood must have got the message somehow, because he hurriedly let me lie down again. Honestly, hasn't that boy been trained in giving first-aide? Wasn't that part of his Captaincy role?

"Bell, no dying on me, okay?" Wood pushed my fringe away from my face. "Remember the deal? I make all my players sign the "No-dying-before-the-end-of-the-season contract."

I laughed weakly, before biting back another cry of pain. Wood looked like he was in physical pain himself. His brow was furrowed in concern.

"You'll have to do better than that if you want to off me." I joked. "You didn't even knock me out."

"You had me worried for a minute there." Wood let out a small smile of relief, but made no effort to untangle his hands from my hair. I don't know what he was up to, but let me tell you, he was playing havoc with my breathing. I didn't know if I couldn't breathe because of my injury, or …something else. Just as I was gaining some control over my heartbeat and breathing patterns, he brought his face closer to mine, his eyes lowered…

No, Katie Bell, you are not going to blank out now, of all times. NOT NOW, you understand! Not –

Aw fu--


	20. Falling for Katie

Name: Would you believe, I once heard a rather interesting Quidditch chant with my name in it, which I shall not repeat here. But apparently I'm very good… at something. I'll just leave that up to your imaginations.  
Age: 17 years, 342 days, 16 minutes, 55 seconds – Fred and George made me an Age Counter out of boredom in Charms class yesterday. They say it's going to do something surprising when I turn eighteen, which has me fearing for my safety.  
Hair: I'm honestly surprised I haven't been talent-scouted as a hair model. My hair-style should be in every hairdresser's front window…  
Current Mood: Serenity  
Current Location: Quidditch practise, dodging super-charged Bludgers, catching heavy medicine-balls in by the tips of my fingers, avoiding one pissed-off Bell who's head-hunting me at the moment: just the way I like it.

Honestly, by the way my team was looking at me you'd think I'd just revoked their Hogsmeades visits and given them detention with Snape for a fortnight. It's Quidditch practise: an enjoyable, peaceful time. A time of reflection and fun. As long as it's Quidditch-related fun and reflection, mind you.

I was currently trying to persuade Bell, who was being purposefully contrary and difficult, to do this one spectacular play I dreamt up a few nights ago. In my dream, she completely nailed the manoeuvre; Gryffindor won the cup, I was accepted to Puddlemere United and Bell and I…Well, yeah, I don't expect that bit to actually happen. Usually Bell's up for kind of tricky manoeuvre or challenge, but for some reason she needed some convincing for this play.

"Look Ma, no hands!" Angelina skimmed past us as I was trying to demonstrate to Bell. Angelina's balance was completely perfect, so I don't see why Bell was raising such a fuss. For God's sake, all she has to do is keep two feet – or even one little toe, I don't really care how she does it – on her broom as she hurtles around a moving obstacle course at 100 miles an hours, 200 feet up in the air. What's the big problem?

Johnson was still buzzing around us like a persistent fly.

"Johnson, cease and desist."  
"Wood, why can't Angelina or Alicia do this play?" Bell whinged.  
"Because I want you to." I answer. I can't understand how someone who flies with so much precision can be such a klutz on two legs. Flying in much more difficult that it looks; you have to take into account all the different air pressures, wind speeds, tail winds, head winds, banking and breaking and tonnes of other stuff. With walking, you pretty much just put one foot in front of the other, but there were days it seemed Bell couldn't even manage that. I was interrupted from my thoughts when Bell whined,

"I'll end up killing myself." And then she pouted. POUTY LIPS! If there's one thing that distracts me from Quidditch, it's pouty lips. That was a sneaky trick. She must know that pouty lips always distract me.

"I don't care, as long as you make that play," I said, still dazzled… Pouty lips…My mouth tends to run away with my brain when I'm distracted, and I tend to say exactly what wafts into my head at the time. Which thankfully was not "pouty lips." Instead I wondered aloud if ghosts could still count as a team member. And Bell heard me. And I'm no specialist when it comes to understanding the minds of girls, but I _think_ she may have misinterpreted my comment as a lack of concern on the matter of her mortal well-being. And I'm not entirely positive, but it might have pissed her off. She flew up to me, still standing straight on her broom. Perfect – if she could fly like that during the game we'd be set.

"Wood, if there's one person here who should be dead, by rights it ought to be you!" I was wondering when she'd bring that up. She's so cute when she's angry. Dammit, my brain was still on autopilot… No, Wood, she's not cute. She's annoying. Distracting. Funny-looking when she screws her face up like that. Yeah, we'll go with that last one. That one's the safest thought. "You got me a detention with Sprout." With every word she poked me in the arm. It hurt a bit. But only a little, okay? She got me in that really tender spot where there's those nerve clusters. It hurt, okay? As she assaulted me I could see the scratches, with the little beads of blood, up and down her arms. Hmmm. I had originally thought she'd gotten into a tiff with Hermione Granger's crazed cat, but obviously not. She'd had a run-in with the Horrible Hornuculous.

"Well, did you read the assignment before you handed it in?" I countered, grabbing her wrist and shoving her backwards with it. Bell's face mirrored a stunned haddock as she tried to come up with a come-back. "Didn't think so." I smirked. Score 1 for the Keeper.

It took Bell a split-second to regain her balance before she flew straight back into my face and had another go at me – I think she's gotten the hang of manoeuvre now.

"I shouldn't have to." She tried to crash-tackle me and stay on her broom at the same time. She was doing a pretty good job of it. "You're supposed to be my friend, and that was a low, nasty trick." Giving up on tackling me, she changed tactics and opted for guilt-tripping instead. That's my girl. Dimly I heard Angelina worrying as usual. She was right – we were getting off-track and we could still cram another hour into practise, if we were lucky.

"Bell, I'm not getting into an argument with you about this - it's not even Quidditch related. Let's just sort out these plays on the pitch while it's still light and then we can sort this out later." Bell pegged a Quaffle at me in retaliation. My brilliantly-honed Keeper skills ensured I caught it. Let's hear it for the Captain – Score 2 to me. I twirled the Quaffle on one finger, showing off a bit.

"There's nothing you can throw at me that I can't catch, Bell." Right there, that was when I jinxed her.

I didn't even hear the Bludger whistling through the air until George swore. His finely-tuned Beater ears meant he heard it a split-second before the rest of us, but even by then it was already too late. Bell let out a little shriek as the Bludger hit her, or as she lost her balance, I don't know. But all Quidditch players are so practised at falling off their brooms that they barely shout out when it happens. Bell stopped screaming almost straight-away, which meant I couldn't see her and I couldn't hear her. If she'd kept screaming I might have been able to find her, to catch her before she hit the ground. As it was, the only other sound I heard was complete silence, until the impact. And she hit the ground _hard_. I was diving after her, and it was so dark I couldn't tell where the sky ended and the earth began. It was only after hearing her that I pulled up sharply – I was only inches away from the ground myself.

I pelted over to her, stumbling on my robes and falling to her side. I grabbed her shoulders and lifted her, so she could see my face properly and I could see hers.

"Bell, I couldn't see you fall, I didn't know where you were." I tried to explain it to her, but my voice was cracking and I don't know if she heard me. I had to explain it to her before she blacked out. I don't know. I just wanted to let her know why I wasn't there to save her. Again. I didn't want her to sink into unconsciousness feeling alone. And if I wanted to be selfish, I didn't want her sinking into unconsciousness being angry at me.

She let out a strangled cry. Shit. This was bad. Bell never admits to being in pain. I've seen her with broken wrists, arms, legs and she just laughed it off like it was nothing. But now she was having trouble breathing, and I immediately suspected a punctured lung. I brushed some hair from her eyes so I could see them more clearly.

"Bell, no dying on me. Remember the deal? I make all my players sign the "No-dying-before-the-end-of-the-season contract." I was meant to pass it off as a joke, but I sounded slightly panicked and hysterical. If any other of her ribs had shattered and caused damage, she could have blood pooling into her lungs, drowning her.

Bell just laughed it off, like she had all of her other injuries. She was trying to be strong. If not for herself, than for me. She didn't want to worry me, her Captain. I can't believe that girl some times. She bit back another cry of pain. Jesus, Mary. It cut me down to the quick. Never in my life have I felt more helpless, more hopeless. It was like watching a Quaffle soar through my unguarded hoops in slow motion. Only two thousand times worse. Bell must have read the look of guilt on my face.

"You'll have to do better than that if you want to off me." She managed courageously. "You didn't even knock me out."

"You had me worried for a minute there." I whispered. I couldn't take my eyes off her, I couldn't untangle my hands from her hair. It was like I was magnetically drawn.

Stuff it, I wasn't fighting this anymore. Bell has to almost die for me to sort out my feelings towards her, and I wasn't letting this chance get away from me. Trying to catch Bell was like trying to catch the rain, or the wind. She was a force of nature, and this might be my only chance for a long time to catch her still.

So I kissed her. But when I pulled back and opened my eyes, she was already unconscious.

**Anyone want to give me any ideas on where to head next? I'm not completely muse-less; I have a basic outline in mind, but various scenarios could be added in. And there was a KISS for those hormone-crazed so-and-so's. 'FINALLY' I hear you shriek. 'But wait, you cheated, Elinai - Katie wasn't actually awake to witness it.' It's progress though. They're getting there. Next time, there may be more fireworks and magic, so to speak. I'll stop punning now. **


	21. He Loves Me

Name: Katie. I think.  
Age: 16.  
Hair: Uh. Bird's nest. Pillow hair.  
Current Location: Hospital Wing, by the look of things.  
Current Mood: I don't really have one at the moment.

I woke up to see the whole Quidditch team peering down at me. For a minute I thought we were still on the pitch and I'd only blacked out for a second, but it was too light outside for that to be true. Angelina and Alicia were looking at me concerned, Fred and George was murmuring in the corner, Harry looked relieved and Wood... Where was Wood? For some reason my eyes frantically scanned the room, my heart beating faster. Adrenaline – that's weird. This is how I feel before I step onto the pitch to play Quidditch. I don't know why my heart was racing now, when I was lying in a hospital bed looking for my Captain. It just must be a bit confused. And then there was this adrenaline let-down as I realised Wood wasn't there. That's right, he trials for Puddlemere today. He should be getting ready right about now. Then he appears in my line of vision, pacing back and forth on the far side of the room. He looks guilty for some reason. Agitated. He looks like he looked when we lost to Hufflepuff, when he was in the showers. He was beating himself up over something. But why was he here?

"What's the time?" I twist madly, trying to find a bedside clock. Angelina frowned lightly. "It's eight-fifty. In the morning. Why?"  
I turn to look at Oliver. "Why are you here?"  
Now it's his turn to look confused. "What?"

"Why aren't you at Puddlemere, trailing? You trial in ten minutes, for God's sake." Oliver opened his mouth to say something, but I interrupted him. Crazy boy; he's been wanting this for so long and now he's going to throw it away! For what? I have no idea what's running though his head. "What are you waiting for!" I scolded him. "Fly to the Forbidden Forest and Apparate, you daft child. Before you miss the chance of a life-time."

"But -"

"Oliver, we've trained all these hours for this, and if you don't leave now I'm going to throttle you, then kick you all the way to Puddlemere, cheer my heart out as you trial, and then strangle you some more. Now go." I throw off the bed-sheets and I'm just about to make good on my threat when he realises I'm dead serious. He gives me a brief but intense glare, as he checks I'm ok. Or alive, at the very least. I must have convinced him, because he turns away, satisfied I'm alright.

"Okay, okay, I'm going." He conceded, grabbing his broom for the corner of the room. Good thing he got going when he did, because my ribs won't let me move any further. "I was just doing the team-captain thing and making sure my Chaser was alright." He leant over to ruffle my hair in a sporting-coach kind of way, but he left it linger. I pushed it away in my impatience to make sure he got to his freaking trials.

"Like Hell you were, Wood. You were just procrastinating again and hiding from the world, like that time in the showers after Hufflepuff." He grinned as Fred and George pricked up their ears at my mention of 'shower.'

"What shower?" Fred asked.  
"When?" Asked George.  
"What happened?" This time it was Angelina's turn.  
"This was a together-kind-of-shower, right?" Alicia stated bluntly.  
"Well, yeah - but not in the way you think." I hurriedly pressed on, looking around for Wood to back me up. But that freaking Scottish kilt-wearing son of a Bludger had already snuck out and bailed on me.

The rest of them hadn't noticed Wood's sudden departure.

"Finally!" Alicia exclaimed, at the same time herding Fred, George and Harry out of the room with such speed it would make Madame Pomfrey proud. "Spill the details. I was wondering when you two would finally work it out."  
"What! Wait! What? Work what out? When? Who?"

Angelina and Alicia shot each other Looks. It was a cross between she's-ill-maybe-we-shouldn't-bring-this-up-now, and she's-definitely-crazy-and-needs-to-be-told-this.

Angela sat down gently on the edge of my hospital bed. "Honey, we've been waiting for you guys to figure it out yourselves, but well, Wood's in his last year already, and by the time you guys work it out you'll be about 50."  
"What are you trying to say?" I asked faintly. "And why did you let Oliver waste time here, when he should have been prepping for the trials?"  
"Oliver refused to leave the hospital wing until you woke up." Angelina explained.  
"Well that's just stupid. He almost missed his trials. How could you let him do that? Why would he do that?"

Angelina lost her poise and patience with trying to break me the news lightly. "Bloody Hell Katie, how daft can you get?" She cried in exasperation. She rarely raises her voice for anything, let alone swearing.

"No, I don't get it. Stop speaking in cryptic puzzles and just tell me, Ange."  
"For fu--'s sake — Oliver bloody likes you!" Fred hollered through the closed door from the hallway. I think my heart missed a beat.  
"And you like him." Alicia added bluntly.


	22. She Loves Me Not

Name: It should be Yellow, the Cowardly Chicken  
Age: Almost 18  
Hair: Rocketing around  
Current Location: G-Forced in Apparation, halfway to Puddlemere United grounds.  
Current Mood: Pissed off at myself.

I feel like such a chicken. Like a cop-out. I can't even explain it. I was fully prepared not to go to those trials. I'd stopped looking at my watch long ago. The trial didn't even matter to me anymore. I had to make sure Bell was okay. That she'd wake up and forgive me. That she'd even wake up at all.

But as soon as she woke up, the first words out of her mouth were telling me to get lost. Well, it wasn't really like that, but it still sort of feels that way. Instead I just go my meek little way and bail on her, without even telling her why I was still there, why I was waiting.

I'm just fooling myself, honestly. Oliver Wood, you are both a coward and a fool. She doesn't think of you in that way. She sees you as a Captain and maybe a friend, and that's it. Her heart doesn't beat faster when I enter the room. She likes me, or at least tolerates me, but she doesn't love me. I thought back a few short weeks, when she whispered my name in her sleep. But then I thought of today, and how she shoved my hand away from her hair as I was leaving. Actions speak louder than words.

* * *

**So much angsty feelings. Jeez. Heading back to the lighter stuff, ie jokes and screaming matches soon I think. Can't handle much more of these intense emotions.**


	23. Keeping up appearances

Name: Katie. Or Bell to Oliver, who seems to have forgotten my first name.  
Age: 16  
Hair: There are only so many adjectives to describe my hair. Messy, untidy, disorderly, chaotic.  
Current Mood: Sightly apprehensive and possibly fearing for my life  
Current Location: In my dorm with Ange and Alicia.

Angelina was patiently bulldozing a brush through my hair, trying to work out all the knots that had accumulated during my stay at the hospital wing. They were trying to convince me to dye my hair, cut my hair, do _something, anything_ with my hair.

"Katie, we wouldn't want to change a thing about you." She stated sincerely as she deftly untangled another matt of hair. Alicia merely snorted undiplomatically. Just because Alicia could look gorgeous in anything, at any time of the day, without even trying.

"But you just don't have a certain style. Nothing you wear is '_you'_."

"That's not true!" I felt I should be offended, but I had no idea what Angelina was trying to say.

"Katie, look at what you're wearing." Alicia sighed. I was wearing a polo-top, converse sneakers and Canterbury shorts. My hair was…well, yeah. Not so good, but that wasn't my fault. Ange was fixing it anyway.

There was nothing wrong with what I was wearing. My outfit was pretty much what I wore everyday. There were no offensive slogans, I wasn't flashing anyone – that I knew of, anyway. I can never make guarantees about things like that.

"It's practical, I'll grant, but it doesn't say anything about _you_ as a person." Angelina reasoned.

"It says I play Quidditch." I pressed stubbornly. This time it was Alicia's turn to lose patience with me.

Just in case Alicia's character hasn't shone through enough, I'll give you a briefing now. Alicia is a wonderful, un-judgemental person whom rarely gives advice or opinions on matters she deems are none of her business. She believes she's got more to worry about than analysing other people's lives. As a result she's had the fewest amounts of fights out of any of us, and is friends with just about anyone. Except Slytherin's obviously. She has a tendency to say exactly what needs to be said. But even she shocked me with what she said next.

"Katie, I'll tell you what your ensemble says about you. It says: I am a tomboy who buys the same style of shirt in different colours, so I don't have to try anything else in the shop on. I wear the same thing until it falls to pieces. I have one or two dresses being feasted on by cloth-moths and Doxys at the back of my closet at home. I do not own a pair of heels. I own one pair of flip-flops. The only thing I have in varying styles and colours is sneakers. I wear shorts and sneakers because I don't have enough grace to manage heels and dresses without flashing the entire Great Hall."

I stared at her gobsmacked, completely blind-sighted. She was 100 correct, but as blunt as a charging bull. I didn't know what to say. Should I be insulted? Should I give her the silent treatment? Should I crash-tackle her and say she was being illogical, like I did with Oliver?

"I have to be blunt to get through to you Katie." Alicia explained. "I could tell this about you simply by the clothes you are wearing: not because I'm your friend and I know you."

"But," Ange intercepted tactfully, "You have a great personality Katie, and you should show it any way you can, because you are an awesome person and an even greater friend. And I'm saying this as your friend, in the nicest way possible. If you don't want to do it, I completely understand."

"But tough, you're doing it anyway." Alicia regained control of the conversation. "We're going to the Hogsmeade right now, to find your own personal style. This is a get-better present from the whole team, but mainly Ange and me."

"So you're not doing this to get me with Oliver?" I smirked.

"Well, if he just happens to notice you look a little different, that's another plus, right?" Ange grinned cheekily.

"Show off that Quidditch bod, girl." Alicia grinned. "And those. _Those_ you didn't get through Quidditch." She pointed to my chest. I blushed and suddenly had a vision of myself dressed up like a cheap tart in heavy makeup and low-cut, tight dress with six-inch heels.

"I get full say in the clothes I put on, right?" I bargained.

"Katie – it's not a make-over. We're not changing your look; we're un-covering it for the first time. This is self-discovery through retail therapy." Angelina reasoned, rolling her eyes.

* * *

**I myself am sceptical of the success and ethics behind 'make-overs' but hey, it seemed an Angela and Alicia thing to do. **


	24. Catching a Break

Name: I've forgotten it. I'm making more space in my brain to remember Quidditch plays by erasing all non-essential information.  
Age: See above reason.  
Hair: A bit flat, actually. I have some grass stuck in it too. Don't ask me how, because I have no idea.  
Current Mood: My knees are almost knocking together, okay. Don't ask, because I don't want to be the first contestant here to faint or suffer an aneurism.  
Current Location: Puddlemere United Quidditch Pitch

I land awkwardly on the Puddlemere Quidditch Pitch, stumbling head-ward and trying not to twist an ankle. Not that I'd really need it for the trials, being 600 feet in the air perched on a broomstick. But still, this said a lot about my sporting prowess, my sense of balance and general athletic ability as a whole. Ie: Don't put your money on the Scottish kid. Oliver Wood accident waiting to happen. Yeah, I might as well turn around and go home now. Instead I look around sheepishly to see if anyone noticed. A bunch of girls in multi-coloured robes giggle nearby. Smooth, Wood. I focus my attention on the Pitch, taking in as much as I can. I figure with the rate I'm going my, trial will last a grand total of two seconds, so I might as well make the most of the experience.

I stare at Puddlemere's Pitch in awe. I've stopped trying to blend in and looking like I can tell one end of the Pitch from the other. Everyone is sauntering around like they're Puddlemere's managers or whatever, but I figure every detail I take in now can colour my day-dreams for the next few months. The Pitch is humongous. If Hogwarts had a Pitch this big, suicide runs would live up to their name. I know all Quidditch Pitches are supposed to be the same regulation size, but this one still looked bigger. It could have something to do with the grandstands that loomed taller than the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts, the state-of-the-art motion capture screens, the flashing slogans and banners that papered the boundary of the pitch. Oh yeah, and the hundreds of people scattered all over the grounds.

I look at my feet to avoid staring at the crowd of hopeful Keepers. The grass under my feet is an almost fluorescent green. The Keeper's hoops have been polished so the brass looks like gold. No matter how many times I casually drop it into the conversation, Filch is yet to award anyone a detention that involves polishing the Hogwart's Hoops. Of course, I'm not exactly on speaking terms with Filch, so perhaps that might be a contributing factor to the reason our hoops are going that greenish shade neglected brass gets.

A loudspeaker announces Keeper trials are beginning. Despite the fact that ever since I'm arrived I've felt so obviously second-rate, I feel a splutter of hope, coupled with a surge of adrenaline. I've given myself pep-talks, trying to let myself down gently, but nobody listens to me, especially myself. My heart-beat picks up as I walk over to the tent, with the rest of the Keeper try-outs. Some of the crowd mill over to the stadium seats to watch us trial, waiting for their turn. One side of the tent has desks, where we sign our names and details. It's just like a Hogwarts trial only much, much worse. I don't even remember trialling for The Gryffindor team. Obviously it wasn't this traumatic.

"Okay, here's the drill." The squat-looking judge barked self-importantly. Merlin, I hope I don't sound like that when I give the team orders. Note to self: listen to self more. "We will pair you off randomly against each other. The person with the surname that comes _first_ in the alphabet will have possession of the Quaffle first, with the intent being to score as many goals against the Keeping partner as possible in five minutes. After five minutes, you will swap. The person with the lowest score – as in, the person whom lets the _fewest_ amount of Quaffles through their hoops - will progress to the next round, while the other, unfortunately, will leave us. You will not be assessed on your throwing technique, but your _catching_ technique. We are trialling Keepers, not Chasers. Got that?

"If there is a tie, or neither scores against the other, both will progress to the next round. Previously we used to assess each triallee individually against Charmed Quaffles, but it took too long and no triallee managed to save a single Quaffle."

That sounds encouraging.

"_If_ you make our final ten, we will give you a break of one week, to rest and heal and judge whether today was a once-off occurrence. You will also be tested for magical enhancers during this time. You will then, _if_ you make the final ten, play a series of mini-games against both yourselves and members of the Puddlemere team." I breathe a little faster at this news. Several people gasp audibly. The tension in the tent ratchets up a few notches. Currently my pulse was flittering faster than the wings of the Golden Snitch.

Wordlessly the judges raised their wands, and along the longer-sides of the Pitch - the north and south sides - small Hoops sprout out of the ground. They were half the height of regulation Hoops, but they were grouped in threes. It looked like we would be playing mini-games along the width of the Pitch, not the length.

"There is a height imposition of 40 feet: triallees are only allowed to fly as high as the top of the Quidditch Pitch stadium." Another judge barked.

"We will be watching you on the motion capture screens, and every time a Quaffle is let through a Hoop, it will make a noise to alert us. We will keep tally, as well as the other officials that will be walking up and down the Pitch." Our names were then read out and we took out place at one of the groups of small Hoops.

In the blink of an eye I was hovering a few feet off the ground, eye to eye with my first partner, John Goatshead. I was defending the Hoops first. It's times like these I curse having a surname at the end of the alphabet. The whistle blew after what felt like only five seconds. I hadn't let any Quaffles through my hoops. I hadn't lost the first round. Perhaps because of this relief, maybe I threw poorly. Or perhaps it's because Keepers aren't used to trying to score; we defend instead of attack. Or maybe John was just a good Keeper. Whatever the reason, he didn't let any Quaffles through either. We tied, and shook hands amiably at the end of the first trial, both intensely relieved we hadn't been the first round to be rejected. I could handle bombing out in the next round; as long as I hadn't been in the first group, it proves I have at least some Quidditch potential.

Because of the tie, I don't know if I should be thankful I didn't bomb out in the first round, or be nervous that I didn't score more points. After finishing the first round I didn't feel any less nervous: I hadn't gotten a handle on the skill level of any of the competition. When I play Hogwarts games, you can bet what each team will pull. Slytherin always try sneaky, underhanded tactics, so you have to be on guard for illegal moves. Hufflepuff try to just bull-doze their way across the pitch with minimum passes and plays. Ravenclaw is the exact opposite, with simple, well though-out tactics and manoeuvres. My point is, you always know what's coming. I had no idea what they were going to throw at me next. I wish I had Bell here, she's excellent at picking up player weaknesses and poor defences.

The next contestant threw me completely. She almost caused me to lose the trial. I didn't even hear her name, I was too busy gawping. She had long, ash blonde hair, and a light, trilling laugh. Something flashed in my head: Veela. My Mother's Grandmother was apparently half-Veela, so I was well aware of the tricks Veela played. Feeling slightly relieved that I knew the tactics of my opponent, my head cleared just as the first whistle blew. I blocked all the Quaffles she threw at me; not that they had much force behind them to start with. When it was my turn to throw, I hurled them at her with no remorse. No doubt she had an easy win last round by bamboozing and dazzling her first opponent. But not Oliver Wood. Looks shouldn't get you everywhere, I thought as her long hair fell blew into her face and tangled around her wrists for the forth time. By the time the final whistle blew, she had let six Quaffles through. She stormed off the Pitch without shaking hands, her face transforming and elongating into the ugly bird/demon-like form Veela's try to desperately to hide.

The next 11 contestants flew past me. I couldn't believe my good luck. I had met quite a few good players that kept me on my toes, but by some fluke of fate, I had gotten through all the rounds. There were only twenty contestants left: one round remained to cut the twenty down to the final ten.

My final opponent was someone called Callidus Venenum. "Cally" she muttered under her breath. Again, I cursed having a surname beginning with "W". All thoughts flew out of my head as the first whistle blew. If I just blocked every airborne scarlet-colour thing that was being lobbed my way for another five minutes, I would have made it to the final ten. I would get to trial with actual members of Puddlemere United. There was a loud 'ping' behind me. It took several seconds for me to register what the noise was: I had let a Quaffle through my hoops.

I stared at Cally in horror. She smiled politely. "Concentrate." She offered, before pelting the next Quaffle to my left. She reminded a bit of Bell, for some reason. I spent the next few minutes throwing myself around my Hoops, desperate not to let the Quaffle through. I stopped most of them deftly, but there were a few heart-pounding moments where I just brushed the Quaffle with my finger-tips. I didn't let anymore Quaffles in, and at the end of the first whistle I was having trouble breathing. I didn't know if I had enough in me to make a good game against this Cally.

The second whistle blew and it was Cally's turn at the goal-posts. I pegged the first Quaffle at her on her left side, seeing as I'd noticed she'd been right-handed when she'd been throwing the Quaffles at me. She kicked the ball back to me easily, the small smile on her face seemed to be challenging me with "Is that all that you've got?" Heaven help me, her expression was so much like Bell's I couldn't help being annoyed at her. I threw the next few balls with wild abandon, trying to find her weak defence. As the minutes wore on, she amazed and impressed me more and more with her Keeping skills. While I'd been flopping around the Hoops like a winded fish, she blocked each Quaffle with purpose and poise. I'd never seen anyone so graceful and deadly at defending Hoops. Even the Veela hadn't guarded her Hoops with as much elegance as this Cally.

I kept an eye on the count-down timer, and had given up hope of making the final 10. I had just under ten seconds left to score, and my opponent was just too good. I could handle loosing to her: she was much better than I could ever be. As the final seconds ticked down, I noticed her glance furtively at the clock. Without thinking, without aiming, without winding up, without _breathing_ or hoping, I pitched the Quaffle with everything I had left. I almost fell off my broom with the effort. Startled, Cally lunged at the Quaffle, brushing it with her fingers, but there was too much force behind the throw. The Hoop let out a ding as the final whistle blew. We had tied. It was 1:1. I had made the final 10.

Cally didn't even look annoyed she'd let a Quaffle in. After all, she'd made the top 10 too, hadn't she? She grinned at me. "I should have been concentrating." She admitted sheepishly as we shook hands. I had to make a conscious effort to tell my fingers to let go. "See you next week." She smiled.

My heart jumped at the thought. I wasn't sure if I was more excited at the chance to play Puddlemere, or see Cally play again. I made my way back to judge's tent confused and exhausted.

* * *

**For once, Oliver's POV is longer than Katie's. I was going to chop this chapter in half to make it more easier on the brain (apologies if I lost anyone back there or bored them to death), but the introduction of the new character needed to be included this chapter to keep it up to date with Bell's POV (doing two POV's is hard – it's much harder when the two people aren't even in the same place, having the same experiences).**

**And ahaha – new character! What are our first impressions? Biatch, or likable enough? Ooooh, if you knew the plans I had in store for her. And Oliver. Ooohooo. Bwhahahaha **


	25. If You're Not With Me

Name: I swear, I don't know who I am anymore  
Age: I look a lot older than 16 at the moment  
Hair: All starchy and hair-sprayed  
Current Mood: Sort of mollified and over it at the same time  
Current location: Back in my dorm with Ange and Alicia, after a long jaunt at the Hogsmeade.

"All done!" Angelina beamed, stepping back to admire her handiwork, regarding me as Leonardo might have regarded the Mona Lisa. _Might_ have. _Might_ being the operative word. And although the catch-phrase of this entire little mission was "self-discovery through retail therapy" I think dolling people up is Angelina's private form of therapy. She seems to thrive off it.

"Maybe just a teensy bit more hairspray…" Alicia suggested, holding up the huge bottle that was now almost completely empty.  
"No! No more!" I choked, thinking of all the chemicals I'd already inhaled.  
"Come on Katie, just one more spray." Alicia pressed, knowing how close to the end of my tether I was.  
"Gah! I'm bailing!"

"Finally!" Alicia exclaimed, her cajoling tone vanishing. "We've been trying to hint for ages now that you need to stop hiding in your room and go out and show the world the improved Katie Bell, but you keep wussing out." I suppose that's true; I never make it past the mirror before backing out and pleading with Ange to tone down some of the smokey eye makeup.  
"And people have the gall to say I'm tactless." Alicia huffed.  
"Fine, I'm going. I need some fresh air anyway."

Internally I chided myself: _This time, Katrina Anne Bell, you're going to make it past the mirror. Just wander around the grounds for a few hours so Ange will feel like you made an effort._ The truth was, I didn't mind my new look: the clothes were nice, and I'd steered Ange and Alicia away from tight dresses and tall heels. I won't bore you with the all inane details of my recent purchases, but my casual clothes hadn't differed too far away from my old normal, apparently 'tom-girl' sports clothes, only they had a more rock-chick vibe. The few skirts Angelina had forced me to buy were slightly floaty and bohemian (My logic was with an ankle-length skirt, the only things I could flash were ants). As a final treat, Ange bought me an expensive, elegant evening-type gown, and Alicia bough the shoes. Both gushed that with my hair up in a chignon (whatever the hell _that_ is, but I'm betting not a Quidditch move), I'd look exactly like some Muggle actress called Audrey Hepburn. All in all, I love the look, but maybe not so much the elaborate hair and makeup. Ange promises she'll tone it down for school, and assures me she just got over-excited.

I hesitated at the door.  
"Go get 'em tiger." Alicia enthused. "My little Katie's all grown up."  
Angelina pouted for a second, momentarily saddened by her loss of a guinea-pig, before Alicia asked her, "Hey Ange, could you braid my hair?" Angelina beamed: she was in seventh heaven again.

I made it out through the doors of the Great Hall undetected, and was just about to bolt for the safety and seclusion of the Quidditch Pitch, when who should storm past me than Oliver Wood.

"Hey Wood, how was the trial?" I asked, but he was a man on a mission, and acknowledged me with blind eyes.  
"…Harry…has a Firebolt…a _Firebolt_…We'd blow the competition out of the sky…and McGonagall took it away… I've got to go and convince her…what was she thinking…hard to believe she champions Gryffindor, with that kind of attitude…nice hair by the way Bell." And he was off, taking the stairs two at a time.

The last time Wood worked himself into this much of a state about Quidditch was the first game of his Captaincy, and Fred and George rocked up to the game in pink tutu's and danced Swan Lake in front of him as he explained last-minute manoeuvres. He didn't bat an eye then, so I should be grateful of his reference, if not rather vague, to my hair. And besides, this was all an exercise of self-discovery: it wasn't to impress Oliver.

My arse it wasn't - I spent hours slogging through clothes racks and sitting through Angelina wrangling my hair and murdering my scalp: I want some appreciation damnit! Just one whole-hearted compliment that isn't about my flying, that's all I ask of him. Fricken hell; just give me _something_ to justify all the pain and torture.

"OLIVER WOOD!!" Came a strangled cry, mirroring my own thoughts. It sounded like someone else was just as pissed off at him as I was. I sprinted up the stairs, eagre to render assistance. I wasn't racing to defend my Captain – I was going to help whoever was laying into him. Just thought I'd clarify that.

I skidded to a halt outside of McGonagall's office door. It was closed, but obviously it wasn't doing an effective job.

"Well, what was I supposed to think?!" came Wood's incredulous bellow.  
"Just because I confiscated a broomstick does _not_ mean Snape has cast an Imperious spell over me, _or_ that I accepted bribes from the Slytherin team to sabotage your game." McGonagall said tersely.  
"Well, if you're not being brainwashed, why else did you confiscate the broom?"  
"Did it ever occur to you I confiscated the broom because it might be dangerous to Potter?"  
Wood let out a loud scoff. "I'm sure Potter can handle a broomstick, Professor." I could almost see McGonagall's lips pursed in barely controlled fury.

"A jinxed broomstick? I am looking out for Potter's life, Wood: Heaven knows Harry's had enough close-calls over the past years. Or would you rather your prized Seeker, the Boy Who Lived, die needlessly for the sake of a mere Quidditch game?"

I couldn't quite catch Wood's mumbled reply, but I take it he said something along the lines of,  
"Who cares, as long as he catches the Snitch before he bites the dust." I braced myself; Oliver was asking for it.  
"OLIVER JAMES WOOD!" The Professor's self control smashed. I swear the door rattled on its hinges. I could actually hear her sucking in air, as she took some calming breaths before she continued.

"For starters, Mr Wood, that was a rhetorical question; the answer should have been so painfully obvious it goes without being said. Secondly, if that's your attitude to the lives of your team-mates, I'm going to seriously re-consider your Captaincy! There are times, Mr Wood, when you're maturity levels would have difficulty competing with that of someone five years of age. This argument would be a chief example."

Wood made some more sulky replies. I pressed my ear to the door to hear more clearly. I heard some half-hearted mutters of "Deepest betrayal," and "Slytherin conspiracy," in Wood's low Scottish brogue, but McGonagall seemed to have a handle on her temper. Pity. I was looking forward to hearing Wood yell some more.

"No, I'm not hearing any more of it Oliver." She stated evenly. "Incidentally, I have some more news that relates to your team, but I think I'll wait until you've calmed down sufficiently. You can wait outside me office until you're remembered yourself." And before I could move away from the door, damn Wood and his lightening-quick reflexes had crossed McGonagall's office and wrenched the door out from under my ear. I was thankful the door didn't open outwards, or my jaw would be in a lot of pain right now.

"Bell?" Oliver looked momentarily stunned, until storm clouds billowed over and clouded his face. "Having fun eavesdropping?" Okay, so on the minus side I'd been well and truly busted, and Wood was sooo not in a good mood. I'd have to give the team a heads up before he called next practise. On the plus side, I got to hear Wood yell some more, like I wanted. Unfortunately his Highlander fury was directed at me. However, I was no shrinking violet when it came to screaming matches.

"God Oliver, way to write the 101 of how _not_ to get a Firebolt back."  
Oliver regarded me with cold fury, eyes smouldering in slow-burning anger.

"Butt out Bell; this doesn't concern you." He kept his voice low, trying not to attract McGonagall's attention. So he blew me off. Just like that. Again. Second time today. Bloody hell, you wear a bit of mascara and people think they can walk right over you. I gave him a shot to his shoulders, shoving him against the wall.

"It's about the team; it bloody-well concerns me."

Oliver squared his shoulders and set his jaw. Oh-o. Oliver shoved me back hard. A lot harder than what was really necessary, to be honest. "It's a Captain thing. I'm Captain." This was the angriest I've seen Wood, and for once he actually looked like he could hurt someone. Antagonising him further would not be a good idea. Fortunately I'm not always full of good ideas. In fact, sometimes I have some real clunkers of ideas. Like goading Wood again.

"Perhaps not for much longer, by the sounds of it."  
"Well, for now I'm the Captain, and I'll handle it my way."  
"You were '_handling'_ it," here I hooked my fingers in quotation marks, "about as delicately as a five-year-old pitching a hissy-fit."  
"Bell, if there's acting five years of age, it's you."

And then suddenly Oliver looked a lot taller, and the ground looked a lot closer. I glanced around, confused. Oliver looked horrified and amused at the same time. Let's just say, it was a weird face.

Now, I don't pretend to know everything, I especially don't understand what just happened to happened to, but what I do know is if Wood's pulling that face, I'm willing to bet my broomstick it means he's done something bad.  
"Oliver Wood, I'm going to kill you!" I shrieked, trying to crush his throat. Only I didn't seem to be tall enough to reach, so I latched onto his leg instead.

And that's when McGonagall chose to open her door again.

"Good Lord," she muttered, shocked, hand at her throat. Oh-o. I swiftly let go of Wood's leg and took a step to the side. If McGonagall was shocked, this was bad. After all, The Weasely twins were in her House. This was the Chamber-of-Secrets-massive-serpent-slithering-around kind of bad

She seemed to recover herself, and her eyes narrowed at Wood. "Oliver Wood, so help me, if you maim, slaughter or endanger _any_ more of your team-members, I will call this next match off." She ushered us both into her room and we took a seat. I struggled to climb onto the chair. When I finally scaled the chair and settled, my feet barely grazed the floor. Something was wrong here.  
"What did he do?" I ask, but then the horrible truth dawned on me. My voice, my size. My mind flashed back to the last thing Oliver had said.

"Bell, if there's acting five years of age, it's you."

Wood had turned jinxed me back to a five-year old.

* * *

**Oh yeah, Oliver is in the poo now. Oliver's perspective will be done later in the week, sorry: exam block tip-toeing up on me.  
****And, by the way: Ahem (does best drill sergeant impersonation in Oliver's voice) -  
**'_**C'mon guys – you weren't supposed to like Cally this fast. Where's your team support – you're meant to be going "boo-hiss; that painted hussy's muscling in on Katie's territory." Where's Katie's defence: are you going to lay down and take this?'**_

**You better bloody not, that's all I'm going to say. Although secretly I'm glad I made the new character likable enough. To explain Oliver's somewhat promiscuous actions, Oliver Wood is more infatuated with Cally's skills at Quidditch than Cally herself, but yes, on some subliminal level how Cally plays reminds Wood of Bell, so he likes that aspect of Cally too. He also thinks Bell doesn't like him, so could Cally be the next best thing? Let's just say poor Oliver Wood is very confused right now. It's a good thing he'll never see her again, save for the 2****nd**** Puddlemere trial, right? **

**Bwhahahaha**


	26. You're Against Me

Name: In Big Trouble, as always  
Age: 17  
Hair: Tousled and sexy, as always (surely you people would know by now)  
Current Mood: Rather stroppy, to be honest  
Current Location: McGonagall's office.

I made it back from the trials in a daze. As I was walking up to the Common Room, Fred and George flashed past me.  
"Hi Wood." George said cheerily.  
"Hypothetically, if I were you, I wouldn't go to the fifth floor hallway." His brother cautioned.  
"Hope your trial went well." They both chimed before running full pelt into a tapestry and promptly disappearing from sight.

I shook my head and trudged up the stairs. When the Fat Lady swung open to admit me, who should be in the Common Room but Harry and Ron, looking distinctly put out.  
"Hi Wood." Harry offered. "How did the trial go?"

"Yeah, it went okay." I was too tired to offer them a blow-by-blow account of my fabulousness. Next practise session perhaps. Besides, Harry looked like he'd been robbed or something. "Did I miss anything?"  
"Only Harry getting a Firebolt." Ron offered.

"A FIREBOLT?!" Harry jumped about a foot in the air, and they both regarded me like I was a stark raving lunatic. Okay, Wood, calm down some. "A Firebolt?" I clarified, my voice hoarse from trying to keep it down a few decibels.  
"Yeah." Harry muttered glumly.  
Angelina and Alicia, their heads tightly braided with miniature plaits, poked their heads around the corner from their dormitories.  
"Did we hear Firebolt?" said Alicia.  
How did the trial go, by the way Oliver?" Angelina asked.

"Harry, Firebolt. Team. Practise. Now." I could barely form cohesive sentences, I was so ecstatically impatient to get out on the Pitch to see what the Firebolt could do. No-one was moving, so I went to haul Harry off his feet, but Ron interrupted.  
"He doesn't have it anymore."  
"WHAT?!"  
Harry looked at me reproachfully. "McGonagall took it away."

Oh, she did not.

* * *

I stormed out of the Common Room. Was the World purposefully trying to ruin my last remaining chance at winning the Quidditch Cup?

Taking Fred's advice, I dodged the fifth floor corridor by taking a Weasely short-cut to the Great Hall entrance. I had clamoured out of the armour and made a beeline towards the Great Stairs.

"Hey Wood, how was the trial?" Asked some random (but very gorgeous) fan-girl. Merlin, had Bell posted up some fliers to tell the whole school? Something familiar about the girl's voice made me turn. Holy sweet Merlin's beard: Bell? I was momentarily at a loss for words.

"…Harry…has a Firebolt…a _Firebolt_…" I told her. "We'd blow the competition out of the sky…and McGonagall took it away… I've got to go and convince her…what was she thinking…hard to believe she champions Gryffindor, with that kind of attitude…nice hair by the way." And it was nice; she was nice. Correction, she was utterly knock-me-out _gorgeous_. But she didn't look like my Bell anymore.

Bell's new look wasn't enough to distract me from my mission, or dispel my rage towards McGonagall. I pushed past her and continued up the stairs to confront the Professor.

I barged into McGonagall's office on the first floor without even knocking. The Professor was sitting at her desk, quill in hand. Probably putting the final flourish on selling off Harry's broomstick. I stood in the centre of her room, scanning the bookcases and floors for any sign of Harry's Firebolt. I looked under the empty chairs, wondering how far I could go without getting a detention. Probably overturning her desk would classify as 'too far'. But this was a Liberation, a jail-break.

"Mr Wood. Looking for something?" McGonagall put down her quill in annoyance.  
"Firebolt." I stated simply.  
"I gave it to Professor Snape." She countered. She didn't even try to deny it.  
"How much did he pay you?" I asked hotly.

"Oliver Wood! Whatever reason _you_ may think I gave Professor Snape Harry's Firebolt, you are misinformed."  
"So Snape didn't bribe you to sell him the broomstick."  
"No." came the sarcastic reply. I pulled out my wand.  
"Mr Wood, what half-baked idea are you forming in your thick skull now?" McGonagall asked testily, warily eyeing my wand.  
"I'm just going to test whether Snape's put you under the Imperious curse." I said matter-of-factly.

"OLIVER WOOD!" The castle went deathly silent for several long seconds as McGonagall's voice echoed throughout the stone corridors. To say McGonagall was pissed off would be a tad bit of an understatement. She was livid. Her wand was smoking faintly and her nostrils flaring. I'd say I was well and truly in the dangerous detention zone.

"Well, what was I supposed to think?!" I bellowed. I was having some difficulty gaining full control over my voice projection levels.  
"Just because I confiscated a broomstick does _not_ mean Snape has cast an Imperious spell over me, _or_ that I accepted bribes from the Slytherin team to sabotage your game." McGonagall said tersely.  
"Well, if you're not being brainwashed, why else did you confiscate the broom?"  
"Did it ever occur to you I confiscated the broom because it might be dangerous to Potter?"

"I'm sure Potter can handle a broomstick, Professor." I scoffed. Her wand started smoking again. This was bad. If it started shooting sparks, I knew I was in deep trouble. To put just how much trouble I was in in perspective for you: in their entire life at Hogwarts, the Weaselys have only made McGonagall's wand shoot sparks twice. The first time their detention was so bad they came back ashen-faced and totally silent, and didn't play a single prank for almost a whole month. The second time they didn't come back from their detention until a week later.

"Could he handle a jinxed broomstick?" McGonagall snapped.  
"Well, Potter came up against one of those two years ago, so I don't really see how that would be a problem."  
"Unlike you seem to be, Mr Wood, I am looking out for Potter's life. Heaven knows the boy's had enough close-calls over the past years. Or would you rather your prized Seeker, the Boy Who Lived, die needlessly for the sake of a mere Quidditch game?" You'd think I would have learnt after seven long years: McGonagall has the ears of a bat. But no, Oliver Wood has to get the last word in.

"Who cares, as long as he catches the Snitch before he bites the dust." I mumbled. The Professor's self control smashed.

"OLIVER JAMES WOOD!" Sparks flew from the wand. Merlin's yellowed teeth, I was a goner.

"For starters, Mr Wood, that was a rhetorical question; the answer should have been so painfully obvious it goes without being said. Secondly, if that's your attitude to the lives of your team-mates, I'm going to seriously re-consider your Captaincy!" Fudgestickles.  
"There are times, Mr Wood, when you're maturity levels would have difficulty competing with that of someone five years of age. This argument would be a chief example."

My brain made some more smart answers, but I tried to quash them before I voiced them aloud. Even then, a few forced their way past my mouth.

"No, I'm not hearing any more of it Oliver." McGonagall stated evenly. "Incidentally, I have some more news that relates to your team, but I think I'll wait until you've calmed down sufficiently. You can wait outside me office until you're remembered yourself." Me? Forget myself? Hello – I'm not the one that gave a _Firebolt_, our team's best chance of winning a game, to the ENEMY, in cold blood.

Still furious, I strode across her room in two steps and retched the door open. And almost bowled straight into Bell, who'd had her ear pressed to the door.

"Having fun eavesdropping?" I asked coldly. Any other day of the week, I would have found in endearing; it was just a Bell thing to do. She was just as concerned over the state of the team as I was. But today I felt she was doing it to listen to McGonagall go rank at me, and to have her laugh. And today I was just not in the mood to put up with an immature thing like eavesdropping.

"God Oliver, way to write the 101 of how _not_ to get a Firebolt back." Yeah, that made me feel a whole lot better. I regarded her with cold fury, trying to avoid the impulse to hex her. Or at least pull her hair.

I pushed past her, trying to be the mature one and end the confrontation. After all, I knew what Bell was up to; she did it enough during practise. She was winding me up. "Butt out Bell; this doesn't concern you."

Bell returned my shove, giving me a rather non-playful shot to the shoulder. "It's about the team; it bloody-well concerns me." Hippogriff droppings; she was baiting me, trying to get me to yell at her and attract McGonagall's attention, so _she_ could yell at me some more, and Bell could listen to McGonagall yell at me some more, and it'd be just like old times.

I squared my shoulders and narrowed my eyes. If that's the way she wants to play it, fine. I shoved her back harder. It was probably a lot harder than what was really necessary to be honest, but she wasn't playing nice to begin with. "It's a Captain thing." I replied snidely. "I'm Captain."

"Perhaps not for much longer, by the sounds of it." She balled her hands into fists and stared at me, flinty-eyed.  
"Well, for now I'm the Captain, and I'll handle it my way." I said through my teeth, my own hands contracting into fists of their own.  
"You were '_handling'_ it about as delicately as a five-year-old pitching a hissy-fit." She said spitefully.  
"Bell, if there's anyone acting five years of age, it's you."

And blow me down if she didn't just shrink to the size of a pre-schooler.

I stared at her in surprise. I'd just turned my best Chaser into a five-year-old. The world wasn't out to sabotage my team and my chances at the Quidditch Cup: I was.

Well, that didn't faze her for a second. I don't think she'd even realised what I'd done. She just charged right at me and latched onto my leg like static cling. I had to resist the mental image of me sending her flying through the air, her little five year old arms waving madly.

"Oliver Wood, I'm going to kill you!" She screeched, which, just so you know, coming in a high-pitched voice from a five-year-old's mouth, is not the terribly terrifying stuff nightmares are made of.

McGonagall chose that moment to open her door again. Bowtruckle droppings. If she'd opened it any other time before, she'd have seen how much self-control I had, how mature I was being. But no, she had to open the door after I'd turned Katie Bell back into a five-year-old. Well, crap. There goes my Captaincy.

"Good Lord," she muttered, hand at her throat. She seemed to recover remarkably quickly, narrowing her eyes at me almost by default. Sure, blame the Scottish guy. I mean, who's to say Bell didn't just magically turn herself five? She certainly was acting childishly enough for it to be plausible. "Oliver Wood, so help me, if you maim, slaughter or endanger _any_ more of your team-members, I will call this next match off."

Bell struggled into a seat, her robes swamping her, while I struggled not to laugh. Haha –Oliver Wood: 1. Bell: -1.

"What did he do?" Bell asked, but as soon as the words were out her eyes went wide and she slapped her hands to her mouth.

McGonagall set back into her chair and regarded me over her desk. "Oliver Wood, I have seen people magic their noses off, sprout warts and tentacles and other fungi that just shouldn't be grown on the human body. I've seen someone who tried to Polyjuice themselves into a cat." Bell bit back a snigger; all Gryffindors knew who that was; it was the only mistake that Hermione Granger had ever made.

"I have seen Slytherin's and Gryffindor's jinx each other to pieces. But so help me Oliver James Wood, I have never, in all my years of teaching, seen someone turn someone else into a five-year-old." Maybe they'd give me an award or something. Now was the time to act all contrite and apologise. Maybe I'd still make it out of here without a detention.

"I swear, Professor, I didn't mean to do it." At least that part was true. "I didn't even have my wand out." But secretly I was rather pleased with myself: that was a complicated piece of magic to do, especially without a wand. McGonagall must have noticed.  
"Mr Wood, you don't have to look so pleased with yourself. You'd think by now you would have learnt some measure of self-control."  
"I was trying." I argued. "But Bell kept baiting me."  
"I did not!" Bell retorted. McGonagall rounded on her.  
"Miss Bell, is this true?"  
"Well, he started it!"  
"Oh real mature Bell!" I countered. "It's no wonder I turned you into a five-year-old."  
"See, see – he admits it!"

"Both of you – stop it!" McGonagall thundered. "You're lucky I don't turn you both into two-year-olds." She stopped and rubbed her forehead, stressed. "It's moments like these when I wonder if we should be handing them their wands at 11… or even 17 for that matter." She sighed to herself, shooting me a venomous look. I'm so close to 18 I shouldn't take offence to that comment.

"Just have her normal before the next Quidditch match." McGonagall finally conceded.  
Bell rose off her chair. "Wait, can't you turn me back or something?" She asked desperately.  
"No, it's Mr Wood's who cast the hex. The hex will become uncast when Oliver sees you as a mature adult again."  
I snorted. "Well, you're screwed then." Bell would be living her life as a five-year-old forever.  
Bell made to kick me in the shins, but I placed my palm flat on her forehead, keeping her in place. She looked up at me, her head level with my knees.  
"I don't yike you." She lisps. Despite how much trouble I knew I'd be in when the hex breaks, I just burst out laughing.

"Oh, and Mr Wood?" McGonagall asked as we turned to leave the room. "The other news I had for you." I looked back at her.  
"Detention. This Friday." I tried to stop a groan. "And there's someone here to see you."

* * *

**OOhhhhh, I **_**wonder**_** who that could be.**

**Thanks to all of my reviewers from Katie's last chapter. You awesome reviews and comments inspired me to finish this chapter early.**


	27. Bring it

**Sorry guys – exams! I'm slogging through it as much as I can. It's really annoying, because I have a lot of plans for what comes next, but I just don't have enough time to articulate them at the moment. Only two weeks until exams are over – thanks for sticking with me and the story!**

* * *

Name: Katie, the five-year-old  
Age: FIVE!  
Hair: Five-year-old hair.  
Current Mood: Having a strange urge to play with ponies. What do you freaking think: I've been turned into a fricken five-year-old - I want to murder someone with my little pudgey sausage fingers.  
Current Location: McGonagall's office. 

Can I just say, frankly, I think Wood deserved more than a detention. I expected McGonagall to at least jinx him or something. But no, she's just like "You have a visitor." Who in their right mind would willingly _want_ to see this fricking hexing highland kilt-wearing crazy Scotsman?

Some gorgeous girl, apparently.

"One of your Puddlemere trialees, I believe. Miss Callidus Venenum." McGonagall introduces. I slouch lower into my seat and pout. Oliver, on the other hand, looks ecstatic.

"Cally!" He enthuses. Well, he's on nick-name terms already. The boy sure moves fast. Wasn't he supposed to be busy stressing out and trialling for the chance of a lifetime, not making petty small talk and chatting up foreigners? Cally returns his enthusiasm with a smile that could flood-light a Quidditch Pitch. "What are you doing here? Are you coming to Hogwarts now?"

McGonagall raises an eyebrow.

"Mr Wood, you know the school's policy on student exchange. Besides, Miss Venenum completed her final school year in Ireland last year with distinction. She has a unique proposal for you, and I must admit her proposal and her very presence at Hogwarts is quite odd. But I'm willing to make exceptions in light of your recent success at the Puddlemere trials. Miss Venenum, if you would?" _Cally_ looks unperturbed at McGonagall's stern tone, but twists her hands together as she looks at Oliver from under her lashes.

"Well Oliver, I was wondering if you'd like to train for the trials together? The next trial is going to be a lot tougher, and I want to be prepared. I know you still have school work, but the Professor is willing to make an allowance. Do you, well would you consider…do you want to?" She finished shyly.

Merlin spare me. Oliver's got NEWTS to study for, and when he's not studying for them he'll be scheduling every spare second for Quidditch Practise and making my life miserable. And when he's not doing that he'll be trying to steal Hermione Granger's TimeTurner, so he can schedule even more training sessions and make my life even miserabler before our next game. And why is she even here? Wood has a whole freaking Quidditch team at his disposal and he won't hesitate to abuse his authority and make us train him day and night. And between the –count it: SIX – of us, I'm sure we can train him up ready for the next trial better than _she_ ever could. I'm sorry honey, but you haven't got a chance.

"Sure." Beams Oliver without a second's hesitation.

"What the f-," I go to say, but McGonagall interrupts.

"Oliver, you do realise not only will this training cut into your school lessons, but also your extra-curricular involvements."

"What involvements?"

"Uh, your Quidditch team, Mr Wood. The team I made you Captain of earlier this year."

"Oh, yeah, that."

_Oh, yeah, that?_ _THAT_?! What the hell is going on here? How could Wood just _forget_ he has a team? How could he forget the daily five-am practises? All his plays and manoeuvres and rantings and ravings? The connipitic fit he pitched earlier this year where he threw his shoes into the storm? The suicidal moping in the showers? What the hell is wrong with him?

"Well, Wood, you have a decision to make." McGonagall lectures. "This may take a bit of time to consider, remembering especially your upcoming game."

"I want to train with Cally." Oliver fires back. McGonagall purses her lips in disapproval. I'm with you lady.

Meanwhile Cally had stepped away from the internal door-way and spotted me.

"Oh, who's this? Your daughter?" She asked McGonagall, while pinching my cheek. Clearly, this chick has a deathwish. I let out a deep growl from the back of my throat and she takes a step backwards in surprise. McGonagall looks like she just choked on her own indignation.

"My daughter - hardly. That is Katie Bell, and she's a student here. Miss Venenum, work with Wood at your peril." She adds wryly. "See what he does to his own team-members." McGonagall motions to me. "Miss Bell is a fifth-year."

And then, guess what this _Cally_ chick does? After McGonagall has made it crystal-clear I'm only two years younger than Cally, and obviously cruelly trapped in a five-year-old body because of some Scottish Captain's malicious, evil-minded hex?

"Oh, isn't she a doll." Cally beams, petting my head.

I look up at her.

Oh, it is on.

It is so on.

* * *

**You all guessed correctly! Mystery woman is in fact, Cally.  
****Oliver's POV later on this week. Sorry, this chapter probably has a hell of a lot more spelling errors than usual - in a hurry to post it and actually give you guys something, because you've all been so supportive :)  
AARDVARK's review inspired Katie's last few thoughts.  
Amorteniaaa, thanks for pointing that out - over the course of the story I have boosted up Katie's age and cut Oliver's down some, and also made her the same year as Alicia and Angelina because it's easier to give Katie classes with them instead of inventing new characters. And Oliver's birthdate - yeah, I'm not good with the math side of life, but damn 1976 sounds so...old. Thinking in today's terms, to me that makes him 30... something..._old_! **


	28. Already Brung

Name: Oliver Wood  
Age: Just a few short weeks until I'm 18  
Hair: Illegally great-looking  
Current Mood: Confused, and fearing for my life  
Current Location: McGonagall's office.

Oooh, does Bell look like she's going to blow a gasket. I've seen her get huffy, pouty and poopy on the Quidditch Pitch, but this is something else altogether. Cally goes out of her way to track me down, visit my school and offer to train with me. What does Bell offer? To kill me with chubby five-year-old fingers. So, awkward moment where Cally _petted_ Bell's head, and now Bell has her Game-On face she usually reserves only for Slytherins. Which is weird, because Bell's usually pretty easy-going when it comes to people. I mean, short of the whole petting thing, Cally's done nothing to Bell at all – you think Bell would be pleased to see less of me at practise than usual. I know the rest of the team will be ecstatic about shorter Quidditch practises. Bell's probably just sore about being five years old again and taking it out on everyone else around her. I'm sure Bell doesn't really hate Cally.

**Oh, yeah, some swearing in the next chapter. Just warning you all now, Katie is fairly pissed off.**


	29. Callidus Veneum

Name: Katie  
Age!$# FIVE YEARS OLD  
Hair: Knotty  
Current Mood: I want to burst into tears. I'm blaming five-year-old bi-polar emotions.  
Current Location: Back in my dorm with Ange and Leesh, surrounded by junk food. 

I freaking hate her. I loathe and despise her with the intensity of 5000 flaming suns. With every fibre and filament of my being. I'll kill her. And after I kill her, I'll learn the Dark Arts so I can bring her back to life. And then I'll kill her some more.

"And now you can't wear all this make-up we bought you." Alicia sulked. "What kind of tarty five-year-old would wear blush to school?"

Ok, that had to be the only silver lining in this massive, massive storm cloud that was hanging over my head. I didn't have to wear the stupid dresses and kitten heels.

"That Cally sounds like a b-i-t-c-h." Angelina interjected. Her family is strict on bringing their children up respectfully, so Ange still spells out all her 'naughty words.' And she's still getting the hang of the whole female 'bitch session.'

"She just rocked up out of nowhere and had McGonagall eating out of her hand, and Wood simpering at her feet."  
"That slut." Alicia said through a mouthful of chocolate ice-cream.  
"And she completely ignored me the whole time, and then asked if I was McGonagall's _daughter_."  
"She did not!"  
"And she _petted_ me on the _head_." Alicia's mouth was full, so Angelina took a stab at comforting me.  
"Clearly this Cally person has a superiority complex, coupled with a severe disregard for her own safety."  
"No, Ange, sweetie." Alicia sighed, taking the spoon out of her mouth. "Try again. Less words, more force."  
"That scarlet hussy!"

Alicia grimaced. "It's a start." Alicia waved the ice-cream spoon in my direction.  
"Katie, you may continue."  
"Yeah well, and she's taking up all of Woods time."  
"That painted harlot." Angelina stated with conviction, slamming her hand down on the carpet.  
Alicia suddenly looked more calculated. "Tell me more."  
"Practises are only going to go for an hour, two times a week. Instead of like, 6 hours, every freaking day."  
"Hmmm… Actually, I think I might like this Cally chick. Introduce me and I'll give her a medal." I shot Alicia a withering look. "Followed by a swift kick up the rear." She hastily added.

"He's supposed to be training us for the game, not flirting with some brunette bimbo." I argued.  
"Yeah, but trying to look at this on the positive side, no more early-morning practises." Alicia tried to persuade me.

"Leesh." Angelina hissed, "I might be new to this whole 'b-i-t-c-h session' thing, but aren't we supposed to be comforting her and agreeing with her, and not taking Cally's side?"

"Oh, yeah." Alicia looked deflated. "That salamander scum Cally." She said, less than enthusiastically.  
"We've got to win this game to stay in the running to win the Cup. It's Wood's last year and final shot at it."  
"Now you sound like Wood." Alicia smirked.

"A few days ago Wood was hyperventilating because practise only ran from 5am until 11pm and we took a ten-minute break for lunch and dinner. But when I was in McGongall's office today, he completely forgot he was Quidditch Captain. He forgot about practises, he forgot we had an upcoming game. He even forgot he had a team."

"WHAT?!" That got Alicia. If there's one thing she hates, it's being overlooked.  
"Something's wrong with him."  
Angelina grimaced. "He thinks he's in love. He's infatuated with her."

Holy freaken hell. Wood can't be in love. He can't go out with some chick. He's Wood. He's our Quidditch Captain. He's practically married to the game; that's his only love. Nothing stands between him and Quidditch practise. No force of neither nature nor man. He's like a part of the equipment. One Snitch, two Bludgers, one Quaffle and a Wood.

Alicia petted me on the back and for once it wasn't a patronising gesture. It was a rare display of empathy from Leesh - usually she was the punch-you-on-the-shoulder, suck-it-up and joke-it-off type. No wonder Fred Weasely liked her.

"He'll come around." Angelina consoled. "That Cally's too prissy for him. He likes you, Katie, he's liked you since the first year you were on the team."

Alicia was back to her no-nonsense self, pulling me to my feet and hustling me out the door. "Cally's only going to be here for one week, and then Wood will forget all about her. Now let's burn off these calories and go to our deliciously short, one hour Quidditch practise."

"And really, what does this Cally have that you don't?" Angelina pepped me.

* * *

She leaned against her broomstick, Quidditch robes hugging her in just the right places. _Why couldn't Hogwarts Quidditch robes be tailored like that_? I wondered. Her long, dark hair was arranged into cascading waves framing her perfectly shaped cheekbones. It was deceptively simple, but judging by the amount of time Angelina took to create that same look for a 'casual' meeting with George, her hairstyle would have taken at least an hour. I thought back to this morning, and how much time I took to style my hair. I think I brushed it…I might not have bothered. Well, I mean, I was going out to Quidditch practise. Wind, storms, sweat – who could be bothered? Cally, evidently. Her robes were perfectly pressed. Mine were unironed from being scrunched up at the foot of my bed. But it's practise for freaks sake – not a beauty pageant. They're only going to get ripped, muddied, torn anyway. Her skin was perfect. I had bruises on my shins and scabs on my elbows from my most recent fall.

What has this Cally got that I haven't? Everything. Angelina and Alicia took one look at her and their mouths fell open. Harry had the same reaction when he laid his bespectacled eyes on Cally. Fred and George eyed her appreciatively as Ange and Leesh narrowed their eyes at the Weasleys. Practise hadn't even started and Cally had alienated the team.

"What is _she_ doing here?" I hissed at Wood when he strode out of the change-rooms. I didn't even bother to lower my voice, or refrain from jerking my thumb in Cally's general direction.

"She's here to replace you."

"Oh, he did _not_ just say that!" Angelina was furious on my behalf. And it takes a lot for Angelina to loose her temper.

Wood raised an eyebrow at me. He took several steps closer until he was standing over me to illustrate his point. I had to crane my neck and shield me eyes just to look him in the eyes. "Katie, look at you. You couldn't wrap your arms around a Quaffle, much less catch it properly. One nudge from a Bludger and you'll be catapulted into space. It's not safe for you to play Quidditch. Cally will step in to replace you."

"And what happens at the actual game?"  
Wood made a face. "We'll cross that hurdle when we come to it."  
"Do I get any say?" I asked acidly.  
"No."

"Wood, I'm not five-years old!" Wood shot me a look as he climbed onto his broomstick and zoomed away. "I only look like I am." I muttered under my breath. I felt deflated. I couldn't even muster up outrage or indignation after the way he'd just replaced me. Cally had replaced all aspects of me – she was me. A better looking, better performing me. I didn't have the heart to slog it out in a screaming match with Oliver. He was right.

"Hold on Wood." Fred bellowed. "Katie might be the size of a House-Elf, but at least she's a Chaser. Whatshername isn't." I noticed Cally didn't step in to correct him.

Wood stopped and hovered on his broom. "She got a Quaffle past me at the Puddlemere trials."  
"Only because you were too busy looking at her chest." Wood spun around agitatedly to face Fred.  
"She's good enough." He said tightly. "And her name is Cally."  
"Her name can be Beshrinkle-Who the Wonder Snert for all I care – Katie gets Quaffles past you all the time."  
"Well, she can't now, she's a five-year-old."  
"And who's responsible for that Wood?" Alicia joined in.  
Wood ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Look, we have to win this game." So he does still care about the game. He probably only wants to win it to impress _Cally_.

"Really? Because I was under the impression you just wanted to snog Cally's brains out." George countered.

"Put yourself in my shoes – I've got a choice between a five-year-old or a professional Puddlemere United player. Who would you choose?"

"I'd choose the girl who's been here on time every Quidditch practise for four full years, putting in 110 percent every time." Angelina rationed. Um, who was Ange confusing me with? It was true I was there for every Quidditch practise, but often late and grumpy and unco-operative. "Oliver, Katie's been on the team ever since her second year, when Charlie trialled her. She was the only one that got the Quaffle past you at that trial, that's why."

"This isn't about keeping friendships, it's about what's best for the team."  
Fred crossed his arms. "The team? You're going to let Cally, a total stranger –"  
"- and a two-faced upstart goody-goody may I add," George interrupted.  
"Play for our team - for Gryffindor - when she doesn't even go to this school? And you say it's what's best for the team?"  
"And I'm pretty sure it's against the rules too." Harry piped up. That boy has spent waay too much time around Hermione Granger.  
"LOOK, DO YOU WANT TO WIN THIS BLOODY GAME OR NOT?" Wood bellowed.

"If it involves playing with Cally as a Chaser and you as the Captain, then no." And then Fred, George, Harry, Ange and Leesh turned on their heels and walked over to me) leaving Wood hovering in the middle of an empty Quidditch Pitch.

"I know you like him and all Katie, but Oliver Wood can be a right prick some of the time." Fred sighed as we stormed back to Hogwarts.  
"I don't like him."  
"I wouldn't either, the way he's behaving." He agreed.

"He still likes you Katie." George added brightly. "And let's face it, at the end of a Quidditch practise, you're not exactly going to take out the Miss Witch Competition. The fact that Oliver fancies you after we're covered in mud, grime, sweat, slime, Flobberworm mucus and anything else he throws at us means he's in it for the long haul. Some upstart jock Puddlemere-wannabe isn't going to change that."

"Thanks guys." I finally managed. Angelina and Alicia looked absolutely smitten at the Weasley's boys softer-side. And for once, I could sort of see what the girls saw in the twins.

"Is there any reason you're being this especially nice?"

George looked outraged. "Our Quidditch Captain has just shucked you for some Circe try-hard – you need all the support you can get."

"And also, as mentioned before, you are exactly House-Elf size, and thus the perfect candidate to explore some secret House-Elf passages we've been trying to break into since our second year. So how about it?"

I sighed. Although they meant well, I suddenly felt just as used and betrayed as when Oliver said he'd replaced me. Everyone, even my friends and Quidditch Captain, saw and treated me like a five-year-old. And I was in a serious sulky mood.


	30. Love Drug

**Erg, lovesick Wood. Blerg. Disgusting. Lovesick does not suit Wood**.

Name: Oliver Wood.  
Age: So wishing I was 18  
Hair: Thank Merlin I stole some of Lee's hair gel this morning.  
Current Mood: Trying to concentrate on Quidditch instead of Cally.  
Current Location: Quidditch Pitch

So my team just stormed off. All of them. That was a bit embarrassing. Cally had to witness the whole thing, and she didn't say a word. She's probably thinking I'm a shambles. A push-over. A poor Captain. I was tossing a Quaffle between my hands, fidgeting, thinking of something intelligent to say while she just smiled at me.

"I'm sorry about – " I went to apologise, but she placed a hand on my arm and I had to concentrate on not fainting, babbling or melting. Or all of the above.

"It's okay. I don't mind if they don't like me. It's my fault for turning up unexpectedly. It looked like I was trying to steal Katie's position. You handled them well."

"I should have them all kicked off the team." I muttered.

"They have a right to be angry. It was a sudden manoeuvre and they were unprepared and left off balance." Holy Sweet Merlin she uses Quidditch metaphors just like I do. It's like she's speaking my secret language.

"We have a game soon." I managed to blurt out. "We weren't well prepared in the first place, and now my whole team isn't speaking to me."

"Oliver, prioritise. Which one do you think is more important – winning a school game, or winning a professional career with Puddlemere United?"

"Puddlemere, hands down." I answered quickly. I had to let her know where my loyalties lay.

"I'm 100 committed to Puddlemere and to you." I clarified. She blushed. Oh Merlin, did I say that? I didn't mean it that way. She snatched the Quaffle out of my hands playfully. Cally smiled shyly at me from under lowered lashes.

"Well, we better start practising then, Mr Oliver Wood, Puddlemere Keeper."

* * *

**Oh gag.**


	31. Star Gazing

**Sorry guys – back from holidays. I couldn't write anything over the hols because my parents don't exactly approve of writing as a potential occupation. They see it more as a waste of time. Hence, I had to stay away from the computer lest I get a sermon about the pointlessness of writing.  
****To catch-up with the story (even I've fallen behind), it's probably best to read the last 10 chapters or so to refresh your memories (I know I had to). But the basic low-down for those who can't be bothered:**

**Wood trialled for Puddlemere and made the final 10. He met another contestant Cally, who later rocked up at Hogwarts to 'practise' with him. As a side note Fred, George, Angela and Alicia are trying to get Oliver and Katie to realise there's a spark between them. This involved making over Katie, but she wasn't too impressed with the new her, as yet. Before anyone could see the allegedly 'new-and-improved' Katie, Wood inadvertently changed her into a five-year-old and can't seem to change her back. Wood now thinks Katie is too much of a liability to play Quidditch and is contemplating subbing Cally on the Gryffindor team instead of Katie, because of the upcoming game tomorrow. When Wood's team got wind of his scheme they walked off, and it is unclear whether they will return for the game tomorrow. **

**Sorry this chapter hasn't got more flair for the first one back, but I need to re-establish what's happening. Special thanks to everyone (and I mean everyone, because you all did) who reviewed over the holidays. I didn't realise the story made such an impression. Awesome :)**

* * *

�

Name: Katie  
Age: Small  
Hair: Ange thought it would be funny to make them into two pony-tails on either side of my head. Ha freaking ha. Hilarious.  
Current Mood: Slight annoyance  
Current Location: Between Potions and Astronomy classes, dodging legs and generally trying to avoid getting trampled. 

It's usually difficult enough to get from one side of Hogwarts to another, it being a castle and all. It's especially difficult when you've just come from an exhausting double Potions in the dungeons, and your wacky timetable expects you to be alllll the way at the top of the West Tower for Astronomy in only five minutes. I swear, it's like they expect us to all be like Hermione Granger and be in two places at one time. Add a few hundred students to dodge, heavy books to carry and many, many flights of stairs that love to change around on you, and you get why I'm annoyed. It's also doubly difficult for me because I'm only 3 freaking feet tall. The Weasley's swear they do these absurd timetables to encourage students to find hidden passageways. But then again, the Weasely's think that Filch's "_362 __ABSOLUTELY__ FORBIDDEN things to bring to Hogwarts_" actually reads "_Filch's Christmas Wish List_", and they endeavour to purchase and mass produce at least 20 items on Filch's list every term, just to "bring cheer and Christmas spirit into a tetchy man's life". Because the Weasely twins are just Angels in disguise.

I ducked into a small corridor to avoid being trampled by some rampaging sixth-years.

If I had a Christmas wish list, I would: 

1.� Wish Oliver would hurry up and change me back.  
2.� Promptly kill Oliver when he changed me back.  
3.� Slowly and painfully kill Cally. I'm not sure on the logistics yet, but give me time. I have all of Astronomy to invent and imagine the best ways to totally destroy her. 

"Well, well, well. Katie Bell." Merlin's curled toenail. That voice simultaneously made the hair stand up on the back of my neck and made me have to swallow hard to avoid throwing up. I turned around and looked up into Marcus Flint's face. On second thought's I'll just stare at his shoes. Even if he'd recently trod in Hippogriff dung, it would still be a more attractive option than staring at his face. I resisted the urge to sink my teeth into his ankle. Purely because I have an aversion to catching rabies.

"Word around the school is you'd made a change in your appearance. Something sexy." Surely the one good thing about being five is even Flint wouldn't try to crack onto me. Surely even he isn't that low. 

"But now I've found out Wood's placed a hex on you to keep you all to himself." Well actually, it didn't really go down like that, but I wasn't about to waste my breath explaining that to someone who has an IQ lower than their own shoe-size. 

"And now he won't let you play against us. Smart move. You'd be flattened. And I wouldn't want to have to hurt you." More's the pity, because I desperately wanted to hurt him. Since I was only 5, I'd forgo that desire for a while and further develop my sense of self preservation, which seems to be lacking. 

"So it'll just be me against him during the game. And I'll make you a deal, Katie Bell. If Slytherin wins, I get you all to myself."

"And if Gryffindor win?"

"Wood will be in a nice enough mood to change you back to normal. And then I'll have you either way." 

"No deal." I said coldly, turning on my heel. Flint snagged me back by one of my pony-tails. I knew they were a bad idea.

It was at that moment that Flint was bowled over by a…golf buggy. When I looked to see who was at the wheel, I realised I shouldn't be so surprised. 

"Weasley's Taxi Service." George grinned, beeping the horn. Fred hauled me into the buggy and we zoomed off. Well, Flint was sort of unconscious and lying in the way, but that didn't faze George, and he didn't alter his path. George may have even reversed over Filch several times for good measure. Remind me never to be a pedestrian whenever George is driving. We left Flint in the corridor with tire-tracks over his cloak.

"Where to, Miss?" Fred asked in a cockney accent.

"Dare I even ask where you picked up that Muggle contraption from?"

"Finder's keepers." He replied evilly. 

"We were trying to devise a way to keep you out of trouble." George explained as he tore down hallways and corridors, with little regard for students, suits of armour or our own safety. He had a potential future as driver of the Knight Bus.

"We figured Slytherin would be more likely to have a go at you when you're tiny." Fred reasoned. "We were going to organise an army to guard you." 

"Or at least take it upon ourselves to accompany you between classes."  
As we came up on the heels of a group of Slytherin's, they shrieked and pelted off while George cackled manically. 

"But instead we found this." 

They drove full pelt into a tapestry and beetled down the darkened tunnel of a hidden passageway. George hit the lights and the tunnel blazed, illuminating the silvery cobwebs hanging from the roof like stalactites. 

"We'd like to let you have a lend of it until you're normal-sized again." 

"You are coming to the game, right?" Fred asked.

"Cally seems to have replaced me fairly easily." I replied in a cold voice. 

"Dungbombs." George snorted. "We're only going to support you. So you better turn up, or Wood will get it in his big head that we're there because of _him_." 

"In case you haven't noticed, my competition is Ms Perfect." 

"When has that stopped you before?" Fred pointed out. "You're the most determined player on the team. I thought you'd have wanted to show up Wood and Cally." 

"Just show up." George changed tact. "We're already brewing something up, you could say." Fred winked and George tapped his nose knowingly. Usually that look would instil the fear of God in me, but the Weasley's were on my team. That made me a force to be reckoned with.

Two minutes and two hidden passageways later and I was outside the trapdoor that led to the top of the Astronomy Tower. Fred parked the buggy just inside the last passageway. In unison they saluted like soldiers or bellhops, clicked their heels together, bowed, and still hunched over, scuttled backwards and disappeared back inside the tunnel. You'd swear they rehearse these kinds of things. At least life is never boring with the Weasley twins around.

20 minutes into the Astronomy lesson and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from yawning. I still had an hour of star-mapping before I could finally sleep. For all of about 3 hours, until I had to get up for the last practise before the Slytherin game. If I was still on the team, that was. At the moment I wasn't even sure if we had a team. Whoever turned up at 5am for practise tomorrow was the team. I was seriously debating sleeping in, but then Cally and Flint would have won.

As I nodded off to sleep watching Jupiter court Saturn, I bumped my telescope and the lens dropped several inches. When I looked in it again, it was pointing down towards to Quidditch Pitch. Wood was flitting around on his broomstick. At 1 o'clock in the morning. I smiled to myself. He does still care about the team. And then I caught sight of another figure also darting about. These figures were darkened and blurred, but I knew. Cally. I ground my teeth together and spend the rest of the lesson cursing her under my breath. 

Consequently, my star map suffered and the stars looked rather jerky. My hand had been shaking in rage as I'd been trying to draw in the Southern Constellation and Great Wizard's Beard. But at least I'd tried, right? Bonus points for not falling asleep. By the end of the lesson I was looking forward to joy riding and hooning down a few empty corridors to vent my frustration. If a dark-haired person starting with 'C' and ending in 'Ally' _happened_ to _fall_ in front of my wheels, well, yeah. Bonus points. I mean, whoops.

Unfortunately, as I was descending the stairs to sweet freedom, the Professor took me aside and said unless I claimed extenuating circumstances because of my Age-Jinx, I was most likely going to fail Astronomy again. Peachy. I was five years old, my Quidditch Captain was an ass and won't allow me in the next Quidditch game, and now I was failing classes which in turn meant my mother would ban me from playing Quidditch altogether. 

But even if I wasn't going to be allowed to play Quidditch any more, mark my words, I was still going to even the score before I left. I am going to play in that game tomorrow. 

* * *

**Game on. Cally won't know what hit her.� bwahahaha**


	32. Cally's Turn

**And now I play my trump card****…**

* * *

�

Name: Callidus Veneum  
Age: 19  
Current Mood: Gleeful euphoria and general vindictiveness  
Current Location: On Hogwart's degradingly average Quidditch Pitch, 'practising' Quidditch with that befuddled Scottish buffoon 'Captain' Oliver Wood.

I am so bored right now I can't even believe I'm here. I should be concentrating on spying on another Puddlemere triallee. Yeah, you heard me, _spying_. Not to sound hyper-competitive or anything, because that is sooo not an attractive character trait, but I'm _going_ to win this next trial and be Puddlemere's next Keeper. And there's nothing in the rules that says I can't watch the other triallees and work out their weaknesses. And Oliver Woods weakness just so happens to be me. I didn't even have to do any hocus pocus, didn't even lay a hand on him. Honestly, I didn't do anything to sabotage his game. And by game I mean his metaphoric game. He just sort of ruined his chances all by himself. That boy is a walking basket case. Talk about easy as. By the looks of things he's ruined his chances of winning his precious little school-yard competition as well. Well, his chances will definitely be ruined when I purposefully throw the game tomorrow. That should make well sure Oliver Wood will be in no condition to win, or even score, in the next Puddlemere trials. 

Uh, he's dropped the Quaffle _again_. Honestly, how this guy ever made it to Puddlemere's top ten triallees I have no idea. In less than a week I've virtually neutralized him as a threat. He's so lovesick it's probably his own drool that's making him drop the Quaffle so much. Although, not to blow my own trumpet or anything, but maybe I should be giving my looks more of the credit. What I should be is embarrassed that he actually got a goal passed me in the first try-outs. Although given the squalor he practises in, and his highly dysfunctional team-mates, perhaps I should give the boy a prize that he got as far as he did. 

I watched his team; they're about as committed as gerbils. The red-head twins are more concerned with destroying thing than working as a team, and the two girls are more concerned about flirting with the red-heads (what they see in them I have no idea). The black-haired boy doesn't do much either, and the brown-haired Kate girl seems to expend all of her energies blatantly defying her Captain. And as for Oliver, the supposed 'Captain.' He's a total push-over. I read over his plays; they're utter fantasy. He has too high an opinion of his own and his team's capabilities. Wake up to yourself Oliver: you're not that good. And your team's even worse. Especially seeing as he's substituted me for his only halfway decent player. All I did was walk into a room and that stupid Scotsman dropped his training commitments, his team, his school-work, he even dropped that girlfriend of his. If you could call her a girl, with those clothes she wears. Uh, sneakers – what was she thinking? What was her name again? Kate. Kathryn? Who cares. She was the only thing Oliver had going for him really. She was the one that held the team together, she was the one that buoyed Oliver's self-confidence. She was the real threat to Oliver's success in the Puddlemere trials, not him. And so, like I did with Oliver, I neutralized the danger she posed. Only unlike Oliver, where I am obliged by contract with Puddlemere United not to use any magic on him whatsoever, Kate _may_ have copped a bit of my hocus-pocus. Just a little. 

She acted so childishly I'm not even sure if anyone noticed the difference when I turned her into a five-year-old anyway. 

So I'd say the chance of Oliver Wood winning the Puddlemere trials is about as likely Kate Bell growing up and playing Quidditch anytime soon.� Non-existant. 

* * *

�

**Hands up who saw that coming?**

**Yeah, let's all rewind into the past and recall: Cally ****appeared on the scene at McGonagall's office the **_**exact**_** same time Oliver and Katie had their fight that got her turned into a five-year-old. Co-incidence? I think not.**

**Cally's the sort of girl who sets the high-water-mark for bitchiness. And apparently she's so evil she can't be contained within one FF – she's spawned into cherished reader-reviewer (as a side note, all my readers and reviewers are cherished and special to me: thanks guys!) ****KristyT23, so check it out for a Cally-inspired cameo sometime soonish. That is awesome; one day my characters shall take over the world! Bwhahaaha. **


	33. One Way or Another

Name: Katie Bell  
Age: 16  
Hair: I don't know: hanging. Swaying in the breeze. Like hair always does.  
Current Mood: Too tired to be grumpy. But if I was properly awake, I would be grumpy.  
Current Location: Great Hall breakfast. The Quidditch game begins in an hour.

"Drink up, drink up." George smiled gleefully, pushing a glass of pumpkin juice across the table to me, as I struggled to my seat. I tell you, climbing onto my seat was like trying the scale Mt Everest. And despite all my efforts, when I got up on my seat, my eyes were only level with the table-top. I eyed the pumpkin juice resting several inches from my face.

"My stomach is not awake this early in the morning."

"Just drink it." Fred said. "We put a little pick-me-up in it as well."

"Like caffeine?"

"Even better." George grinned an evil wolfish grin, but my eyes were too blurry to notice, and my brain was too sleepy to realise that drinking an unknown concoction offered by the Weasley's was not a smart idea. At all. But I raised it too my lips anyway.

"That was fricking disgusting!" I spat as I choked it down. "What did you guys put in it?"

"Just a little potion." Fred soothed.

"You'll thank us in a minute." George added.

"I thought you slipped in some coffee. What the hell did you just feed me?" It was then my stomach cramped in pain. The Weasley twins had fricking poisoned me.

I raced upstairs, doubled over in pain, ready to curl up on my bed and wait for the pain to go away. But when I got to my Gryffindor dorm, I felt feverish. I was burning up. I burst into my room and barrelled towards the bathroom. Leesh and Ange were still sitting on their beds, in their full Quidditch gear. Why weren't they warming up on the pitch? No time to wonder, I felt so hot and horrible I decided to take a quick shower. I couldn't believe I'd willingly eaten something the Weasley's had offered me. That was why I usually slept through Breakfast: I was too tired to think straight, thus I often fell prey to the twin's pranks.

Five minutes I was feeling better. A lot better. I stepped out of the shower and pulled my pajamas back on, ready to go back to bed and forget about the stupid Quidditch game. I wiped the foggy mirror with my towel so I could brush my teeth. Through the smoky streaks on the mirror I stared into the face that stared back at me. It was my face. My normal face. My 16-year-old face.

"Ange! Leesh!" I screamed, bolting out of the bathroom to two grinning girls. "I'm me again!"

"We know. Quick, put your Quidditch uniform on." Angela threw me my scarlet robes.

"That was Fred and George's idea. An aging potion."

"So this is permanent, right? They found a way to bypass the whole 'Oliver has to change me back himself' rule?'"

"Not exactly." Grimaced Ange.

"There's just enough potion for you to play the game. Now hurry up and get dressed so we can talk tactics."

There was a loud knock from the other side our window.

"Is she decent yet?" Came Fred's voice.

"Or better yet, is she normal yet?" George asked. After I'd thrown my robes on, Leesh drew back the curtains and opened the window to admit Fred, George, Harry, Ron and Hermione, who was clinging to Ron like a mollusc. I think Hermione may be a touch afraid of heights. Why she just didn't walk through the front door I have no idea – the girl's staircase certainly would have let her through.

"Do you like our surprise?" Fred grinned as he dismounted from his broom.

"It's even better than the golf buggy. But how did you manage it?"

"Katie. Dear, sweet Katie. Being that aging potions are illegal and banned from Hogwarts, naturally we've known about them for years. But we just couldn't get our hands on the ingredients, let alone the actual recipe and someone with enough skill to brew it. But Harry and his magical invisibility cloak solved our first two problems, and Hermione was our other saviour, in more ways than one. Tell her, Hermione." George gave Hermione a bit of a shove forward.

"Well, Harry was telling us about this Cally girl who'd shown up to steal your Quidditch position –"

"Amongst other things." Ange muttered.

" – and I thought, just for fun-"

"_Just for fun_." Ron mimicked sarcastically.

"Will you guys _please_ let me continue? Thank-you. Katie, I looked up Callidus Venenum's family in some of the more general history books."

"Look, Hermione," I sighed, "Knowing Cally is bad enough. I really don't want to know about her heritage and parents right now."

"No, I know you don't. Look, I don't think Oliver Wood was the one who cast this jinx on you."

I barely repressed making a dismissive snorting noise. Actually, a tiny one might have slipped out despite my efforts, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure it was Wood. I was there. He said I behaved like a five-year-old, poof, suddenly I just _happen_ to be five again. Co-incidence? I think not. Even McGonagall, Professor of _Transfiguration_ said it was Wood's fault, and I was royally screwed unless he saw me as a mature adult again."

"That's because she thought Oliver was the one who had cast the jinx. But she's wrong. Think about it: if Oliver really was the one who cast that jinx, then the aging potion shouldn't have worked. I looked it up: the only way to reverse that kind of hex is for the spell originator to cancel it."

"So if Wood didn't cast a spell, what happened to me?"

"I think it was Cally."

"Excuse me?" Hasn't that harpy meddled with my life enough? Right from the start she…right from the start – she was there in McGonagall's office the same time Wood and I were. We just weren't introduced to her until after the spell was cast. I turned to Hermione and snarled, "What the hell did she do to me?"

"Harry told me about the way Wood was treating you guys since Cally came along, especially you, and it didn't seem right. I researched her family history, you know, to try to get information about her. From what Harry told me, everywhere Cally went, she seemed to cause chaos. And that's just it. Her family tree is like a who's-who of mischief causers. You know what Veela's are?"

"I've heard of them." George grunted. "They're supposed to be really pretty, bewitching, sort of like Sirens."

"Close enough." Hermione agreed. "She's got Veela blood in her, which may explain the way Oliver's been acting around her. But that's not all. Her great-great-grandfather was an incredibly powerful sorcerer in the Middle Ages. He was so powerful he was made a local deity, almost like a demi-god. And his chief area of magical expertise? He was a Trickster. Cally's entire family are Tricksters, Chaos-Causers. Her grandfather was Vlad the Venomous, who allegedly poisoned his brother's mind against his fiancée, so Vlad could marry her instead. Considering her heritage, if Cally wanted to, she could probably make Fred and George mortal enemies, and make Harry and Malfoy best friends." Harry shuddered. "It's not Dark Magic, what they practise, but it's close enough."

Inwardly, I was appalled, but my emotions also ran the gamut of seriously pissed off and nervously excitement. Finally, someone had presented tangible evidence to prove what I knew all along: Cally was evil. "Great researching Hermione, but did you find out how to reverse the spell?"

"There aren't a lot of books about Trickster Magic, so I'm not sure how the spell works exactly, but if you want to stay 16 permanently, you've got to somehow find a way to make Cally turn you back."

I grabbed my broomstick from my cupboard. "Trust me, I'll find a way."

* * *

**I think I mentioned it before, but Callidus Venenum's name is **_**supposed**_** to be Latin for 'Callous Venom' and/or 'Shrewd Poison'. I think it may translate more literally into 'Something-er-rather Drug' but hey, I tried; blame free dodgy translation websites and the fact schools no longer teach Latin. **

**I loved the idea of Cally teaming up with Flint, but I don't have the time to explore it as I'm wrapping the story up in the next five or so chapters. Remembering originally I think I expected this story to play out between 5-10 chapters. **

**Any ideas how Katie will make Cally turn her permanently 16 again? I have something in mind, but you guys probably have a better idea.**

**Next Chapter: **_**Let the Games Begin**_**. And begin they do.**


	34. Back in the Game

**You should all officially be angry at me – I told you there were only five or so chapters left and then I haven't written anything for ages. You all have permission to scold me – I've got the plans all written out, I've just been lazy in typing them up. Bad author! Of course, reviews may spur me into fast writing… In case you couldn't tell, I'm very poor at this subtle-hinting thing and even worse at blackmailing…**

* * *

**Name: **Katie  
**Age: **16, and intending to keep it that way  
**Hair: **Standard pony-tail.  
**Mood: **In the mood for some serious arse kicking.  
**Location**: En route to the biggest Showdown of my life. And I don't just mean the game.

So here I am. On the Quidditch Pitch. Well, actually, I'm several miles above the Quidditch Pitch, looking down at the fourteen ant-sized players taking the field. I'm trying to tell myself this is a tactical 'observe-thine-enemy' thing, but really I'm trying to summon enough nerve to gate-crash the last match of the season. Not that I'm worried about what Cally will do to me. Or even Wood. Bring it on I say, as far as I'm concerned. No, I'm worried McGonagall might seize Lee Jordan's commentating microphone and beat me to a bloody pulp if I damage Gryffindor's chances at winning the Cup. But I'm not here to play the Quidditch match. I'm here to win a much more important game.

I took a moment to savour the skies and look down upon the tiny Quidditch Pitch below me. Funny how I can still feel the nerves and tension, even though I'm miles away from the cheering crowd. I'm not even technically playing this match. I doubted anyone could see me soaring above the Pitch at this height, even the spectators – unless they had pointed Occular thingies at the sky. I tried to pick out Cally from the fray of Gryffindor's lining up on the Pitch. She'd be dressed as me, no doubt – McGonagall had stipulated Wood had to have me turned back into a normal 16 year old before the game. Well, I'm here aren't I? And I'm 16. For a few hours at least. Hopefully that should give me enough time to whup Cally's arse. If not, I'm pretty sure I could still whup it even when I'm five.

I counted seven scarlet dots on the field below me. So Wood was going ahead and replacing me with Cally. I should have expected it, I suppose, but Wood was always one to issue empty threats. Not this time. I shouldn't blame him; his mind had been poisoned by Cally, who no doubt was the hooded figure in Gryffindor's line-up, disguising herself as me. But it still hurt a little. Cally.

She had a lot to answer for, that Cally. Never-mind she'd ruined my academic year, causing me to fail my subjects, forcing me to give up Quidditch next year to focus on my studies, even though I'll possibly have to repeat sixth year. No, never-mind that; it was all water under the bridge. I'll forgive her for hexing me into a five-year-old and making my last few weeks at Hogwarts miserable. And I'll even let her stealing Wood away slide, because perhaps he was never mine to begin with. But because of her, I couldn't remember the last time I'd been on a broomstick. Studying wasn't me, Wood wasn't mine, but flying? Flying was a part of me. And Cally was going to answer for stealing my place in the Quidditch line-up.

Madame Hooch's whistle cut through the air, assaulting my ears even at this height. Bowtruckle droppings. I was late to my last ever Quidditch Game. I'd missed my cue and my chance at a show-stopping entrance. Harry was better at that kind of thing anyway – I was more a stealth kind of flier. I angled my broomstick down towards the Quidditch Pitch.

Drawing into the game, I hovered just above all the action for a few seconds, getting a feel for the game, working out who was who. Harry was the only one of our team I could actually see - he soared up slightly to my left, breaking away from the general scrum of the rest of the team so could scan for the Snitch. A Slytherin player came up to hassle him, so he rocketed away. I could make out Wood at the opposite end of the Pitch, hovering about the goalposts like a fretful mother hen. With the identical Quidditch robes I couldn't tell Cally apart from the others, but there was one Gryffindor player who just seemed out of sync with all the others. She might have been catching the Quaffle and scoring against Slytherin, but she was definitely not following our plays: it was as obvious to me as when someone watches a dance chorography and one person's out of time. I knew which one was Cally. I honed in on her. As I dove I heard Lee Jordan's running commentary on the game.

"Excellent intercept from Gryffindor," Lee offered, "Katie Bell is it – can't tell because her hood's up – anyway, excellent intercept by Gryffindor, she's really belting down the field. Strange, no-one seems to be backing her up – not like Wood not to have his players in some sort of complicated formation. She lines up the shot, she's going to get it past Slytherin through the left goalpost, I can tell."

Oh no "Katie" isn't, I thought. Not if I can help it. As I streaked towards her I could hear some microphone feedback echoing around the Pitch – McGonagall seemed to think Lee's prediction was tipping off the Slytherin Keeper and was attempting to wrestle the microphone out of his hands. Lee, I dimly noticed, was getting quite good at fending off McGonagall's attacks, and he managed to yang it back and continue commenting as if nothing had ever happened.

"Don't worry Professor, it's a fairly safe bet that the Slytherin Keeper can't tell his right from left. And what did I tell you, Katie's flitting around the goalposts, about to score an excellent goal that I foresaw – incidentally Trelawney only gave me a P for my OWLS in Divination last year, can you believe it? Anyway, Katie's taking her time lining up the goal, a little bit of showing off it seems. She's not the one usually to show off but I suppose we'll forgive her because she is a cracking Chaser."

No, I won't forgive her. I don't care if Cally is about to make a goal for Gryffindor; I don't even care she's about to make one pretending to be me; I'd rather lose the Cup than have her score a goal. Especially if she's shameless pratting about while doing so. Gritting my teeth, I fought my instinct to swerve, and ploughed straight into her.

"Did you see that?!" Lee exclaimed, delighted, "Was that a _Gryffindor_ player who bowled into their own Chaser? Can't believe it myself, it's not like Gryffindor to fumble a play that badly, but I saw it with my own eyes: another Gryffindor player has crashed straight into Katie and no goal. Wonder what their Captain has to say about that – Yep, there's Wood, firing up from the goalposts – speak louder Oliver, there's a little deaf woman in a small village of Paraguay who didn't hear you."

Entangled, Cally and I plummeted towards the ground. I couldn't help grinning as I heard some of the abuse Wood was yelling out; his thick Scottish accent even more discernable when his Highland blood was up. I couldn't believe I was actually glad to hear Wood screaming himself hoarse at me, but it reminded me of old times. Even though Cally and I were a tangle of limbs and knotted hair, she met my eyes once – they widened in shock as she recognised me – I'd like to think they widened in fear too. I disentangled myself from Cally – taking care to elbow her a few times where I thought her face was - and pulled out of the dive, heading towards Fred and George. I winked to them as I drew closer, letting them know I was back in the game, so to speak. Merlin's teeth, I'm even using Wood's corny sports metaphors. I must be enjoying myself.

I turned into the game again, taking savage delight in noticing Cally's nose was bleeding. Unfortunately I didn't think I'd broken it, but there's still plenty of time left in the match. I completely ignored the game that was unfolding around me – every time the crowd roared, I took no notice. Who had possession of the Quaffle, who scored, I didn't care. I had eyes only for Cally. I tailgated her, dogging her broomstick's tail aggressively. Loyally, no-one on our team threw the Quaffle Cally's way, but every time she intercepted the Quaffle from Slytherin, I knocked it out of her hands. After the first few times, she saw me coming, and tried to evade me. This time I was in no mood for cat-and-mouse games. I trapped her up against a wall, pushing her so close against the side she must have gotten splinters and friction burns. Eventually she pulled into a dive to try to evade me. I dove straight after her. By now my antics had gotten us noticed.

"Seems to me someone's really taken issue with Katie Bell this game, which is highly unfair, seeing as the poor girl's only just recovering from an aging hex that caused her to go round as an infant… Leave Katie alone, you." Lee scolded. "Here come the other Gryffindor members to sort it out. On the other hand, just look at that superb blocking technique from that rogue Gryffindor Chaser. Speaking of rogue, I know my arithmetic has never been good, but is that _four_ Chasers the Gryffindor team seem to have on the Pitch?"

I was wondering when they'd notice Gryffindor had one extra player. In the meantime, Lee had reluctantly surrendered his microphone to McGonagall, who was barking orders into it.

"Gryffindor must take one player off the Pitch immediately or risk being disqualified!" She demanded.

Cally thought she could use my distraction as a means of escape. Evidently, she thought wrong. I grabbed her robes to stop her from going anywhere. She pulled away, trying to shake me loose. But I definitely wasn't letting go. I clutched my broomstick tightly between my knees as Cally accelerated away, me trailing behind her with my broomstick facing the wrong way, my fists still full of her robes. I was getting sick of this. Someone was going to get hurt. Fingers crossed for Cally. With an effort, I threw my whole weight sideways as I pulled tightly on Cally robes, like reining back a wayward horse. For once I was grateful of all the times I had wrestled Wood. Cally gave a sort of 'gulking' noise as the hemline of her robes tightened and strangled her, and we spun towards the grandstand, crashing into a row of spectators. I'm pretty sure the spectators weren't hurt, but they were fairly weedy first-years judging by the fleeting look I saw of them. By then I was rolling around the seats grappling with Cally, a bit more preoccupied with trying to finish what I started, rather than about the safety of first-years. I was determined to break Cally's nose.

"Gryffindor, THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT BY TAKING A PLAYER OFF THE FIELD!" McGonagall screeched. "BREAK UP THAT SCUFFLE NOW." Fred, George and Angela came racing over to help. Alicia seemed to have more faith in me and my wrestling skills; she remained playing on the Pitch, taking advantage of the Slytherin's distraction, who were all watching our all-out brawl with interest.

Fred pulled Cally away from me, and George had to hold me back.

"GRYFFINDOR! PLEASE INDICATE WHICH OF YOUR TEAM MATES WILL DEPART FROM THE GAME!" This voice was not McGonagall's, but Madame Hooch's, who seemed to have been blowing her whistle for several minutes, without any effect.

Cally immediately seized her broomstick and rejoined the Pitch. I don't know whether she was merely attempting to put as much space between me and herself as possible, or she was indicating she was going to remain in the game. Either way, I wasn't having any of it. I grabbed the Beater bat from Fred and aimed it at Cally's retreating back, throwing it with all my might. It spun neatly a few times before hitting her square on the head. Shazam. She dropped to the ground like a stone. Ha. Score 1 to Katie Bell. Cally: 0.

Lee Jordan had resumed control of the microphone. "Well, I'd say Gryffindor's made a pretty clear indication of which team member they chose to depart from the game."

I calmly returned the bat to Fred, remounted my broomstick and rejoined the game. Ange and Leesh sat back and let me score as many goals as I liked to vent my frustration. I'm pretty sure Slytherin stayed right the hell out of my way as well. Gryffindor ended up winning the game. By winning I mean we flogged them 1630 to 30, but who'd worry about keeping score when we won by that much? Harry didn't even catch the Snitch, but when it became obvious Slytherin weren't going to stage a comeback, Hooch blew the whistle for the end of the game. I didn't really care that we'd won – I was just happy to be back on a broomstick, playing Quidditch.

"Congratulations," Madame Hooch said, still slightly bewildered as to what had occurred on her Quidditch grounds. She tentatively handed the trophy to Oliver, no doubt worried our whole team would turn on each other. Wood calmly accepted the trophy, raising it into the air. The Gryffindor crowd was cheering in response, but the rest of the team was mute and silent. I felt bitter, and the Cup didn't seem as bright and big as it had in previous years. This whole game had been a farce. Gryffindor had shown the least amount of teamwork we ever had. For once I would have felt better if that trophy had Slytherin's name on it this year. We trudged back to the changing rooms, letting Wood have his glory. I doubt he noticed we'd gone.

Everyone went into the showers to clean up, but I stayed outside, trying to clear my head and dispel the rage I still had for Cally. I only had hours, or maybe even minutes, before the Weasely's potion wore off and I became five years old again.

Cally appeared out of nowhere. She was still disguised in her Scarlet robes, although they seemed a little ripped and torn. In fact, Cally herself was looking decidedly worse for wear – blood was streaked all down her face, one eye was closing up and her nose looked distinctively off-centre. I took note to congratulate myself later.

"So how'd you do it?" She sneered.

"Do what? Kick your arse? Because I thought Jordan gave a fairly good blow-by-blow account as thousands looked on, but I can go through it again with you if you want." I struggled to my feet to be on more even territory with Cally, my knees and ribs protesting from Cally inflicted bruises.

"How'd you turn back to normal?" She clarified.

I walked straight up to her, till we were toe-to-toe. I was taller than her, I'd never realised before, but then again, I'd been the size of a five-year-old before. Wonder who I can thank for that piece of spell-work?

"It's temporary." I growled. Cally glowed with happiness. "But you'll make it permanent."

"Or?" Cally challenged.

"Or I'll make that temporarily broken nose of yours permanent as well." I darted my hand out and before she could stop me, I had gripped her nose between my two knuckles. "Okay?" Cally was silent. Her breath was coming through her nose in sort of squeaking noises, and I was having trouble keeping a straight face. "Okay?" I moved my hand around, forcing her to follow with her head, unless she wanted her nose to be even more crooked.

"Okay." She whimpered. "Just don't hurt my face, okay?" I released her, and she pulled her head back haughtily.

"You ever try to jinx me again," I warned her, "and you'll be dealing not only with me, but with my friends. Who includes the only boy powerful enough to have escaped from Voldemort, twins who have no qualms whatsoever in breaking every law ever written, two girls who have no trouble helping them, and a girl who's so smart she's basically the human equivalent of the fountain of knowledge. And then there's me. Now, because Oliver, who was supposed to be my tutor, was under your weird genetic-family-illness love-spell, I'm a little rusty on this jinxing stuff. But I'm sure we'll work something out." I picked up one of the Weasley's discarded Beater bats. I'm not usually this violent a person, but I'd had a bad couple of weeks. Besides, Fred's bat had a nice heft to it.

It was at this moment Wood appeared, still clutching the Cup.

"Katie? What are you doing to Cally? And also, what the hell possessed you to take part in the game this afternoon? Cally could have been seriously injured, we could have been disqualified, we could have lost the game - "

"I sort of won the game for you." I interrupted dryly. "Seeing as I am supposed to be your team member. But why I am bothering to tell you all this, seeing as you're clearly still besotted under Cally's love Charm." I didn't have to look around to know Cally was smirking in satisfaction. "You." I pointed the Beater bat at Cally. "Fix him."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She said innocently.

"Luckily for you, I do know what I'm talking about. If you don't break that stupid love drug you've put him under, I'm dragging him right up before the board of Puddlemere United and using him as evidence that you broke your contract by be-spelling and muddling with their potential triallees. Then you'll never get your dream of being Puddlemere United's newest Chaser."

"You wouldn't." Cally shot me a look of deepest loathing, and I realised I'd made my first real enemy outside of Slytherin, who don't really count. I grinned cheerily back at her. She sighed in defeat and clicked her fingers.

"Katie?" Wood asked confused, looking like he'd just woken up. He noted the Cup in his hands and completely forgot about me. "We won the Cup?! Awesome!" I noted Fred's Beater bat was still in my hands. I gave Wood a sharp hit on the head with it at he went down like a sack of flour. Sometimes Wood just doesn't change.

"Oh yeah, Cally – head's up. I already did." Cally looked confused for several seconds, until four official-looking wizards bearing the Puddlemere crest on their robes crossed the Pitch.

"Callidus Venenum? Come with us please. We have to discuss the consequences of the breach of your contract."

Katie Bell: 2. Callidus Venenum: Sod all.

I walked across the bare and empty Pitch, littered with sweet wrappings from the Game and treading over a torn banner bearing scarlet and gold colours, leaving a crying Cally and an unconscious Wood behind me. I should have felt elated. But I felt just as empty as the Pitch I left behind me.

* * *

**Okay, enough of angsty Katie feeling sorry for herself. Wood's back to normal - yay! I was re-reading my first few chapters and I realised how much happier those chapters were than this miserable drivel. So I promise you, now evil Cally's out of the picture, it should be back to happy Wood and Katie. Who, of course, are only happy arguing with each other. Memo to self - More Wood and Katie arguments. Unless you all prefer there to be a bit of drama... Because the whole issue with creepy evil Flint hasn't been properly resolved yet... Just let me know. I am entirely at the mercy of your merest whims and fleeting flights of fancy. **


	35. Do the Funky Grindylow

**Name**: Oliver "I've Been a Right Bastard to My Whole Team" Wood  
**Age**: Last day of being 17! I'd feel elated, if I weren't so damn terrified Weasely's stupid count down timer is going to kill me the instant I turn 18.  
**Hair:** Don't look at me. I don't want you to see my hair like this! It's….flat…(sob)  
**Mood**: Interchanging between total euphoria I'm now undrugged (and won the Cup to boot!) and extreme dejection. Somehow I don't think the misery has anything to do with the downer from Cally's absence.  
**Location**: Common Room

Damn, it feels like it's been forever.

Since everything.

It was like Cally was my whole world, some sort of shining beacon that made everything else dull and blurry. And now she's gone… it's weird. It's like a cloud's been lifted – everything's loud and bright and normal again. Which would be great, except it's a bit sudden and full on, seeing as tonight's my birthday and the Weasley's are throwing a party to rival all parties. They're determined that no-one short of Dumbledore is going to be able to shut down this celebration.

I can't explain – I don't want to explain - what it was like, being Cally's bitch, her love puppet. A mere toy. Seriously, I'm repressing rather well. Madame Pomfrey is prescribing hourly doses of Butterbeer and chocolate, so I haven't had a chance to feel angry at Cally. Or myself.

But enough of that. I'm here to repress. To be happy. To do the funky Grindylow.

Oh sweet Merlin, is that Bell on the staircase?

* * *

**Oliver James Wood is BACK, ladies and gentlemen. Shazam. And like he says, damn, it feels like forever since I've written his POV. **


	36. Freaking Midnight Easter Egg Hunt

**Name**: Katie  
**Age**: 16  
**Hair**: Uh, Audrey Hepburn "Breakfast at Tiffanies" sort of do. The amount of hairspray Ange put in it's got me off slightly balance.  
**Mood**: Currently not in the mood.  
**Location**: Common Room stairs, Wood's 18th Party

Where the frick is Wood? It's supposed to be his freaking party, after all. I let Ange and Leesh dress me up for it and everything. And by 'let' I mean I was bribed, cajoled, blackmailed and generally forced into a black dress and kitten heels. I don't know what exactly 'kitten' heels are, but I'm assured they're not for stomping on kittens. _Allegedly_ (and I am highly sceptical of this claim) they will ensure I will not fall over/flash anyone/trip/break my ankle. Pretty big ask for a high heel shoe, if you ask me.

'Come on Katie' Ange had said in her stupid, mature, logical voice, (playing it over in my head I'm making it sound high-pitched and whiney though) 'Wood's been really down since the game. This party wasn't even his idea – it was Fred and George's – so give him a break.'

So here I am, at the Common Room stairs, surveying the crowd for Wood. No sign of his perfectly chaotic hair anywhere. Apparently that bloody flying Scotsman doesn't even want to be at his own party. Well fine; that makes two of us.

That's it – I was going to the library to study. Maybe if I scrape through a few subjects, my mother will let me stay on the team. Just quietly, I can't foresee that event ever occurring. Oh well, guess there's no point in studying for Divination then. One subject down, like six more to go. At least with everyone partying here, I won't have any distractions in the library. And I will certainly not let myself be distracted by wondering, worrying about and in general daydreaming about a certain Quidditch Captain. All I have to do is make my way past the crowd of hundreds of rowdy Gryffindor's to the Portrait hole, then I'm home free.

Unfortunately, I didn't even get that far – as I was descending down the staircase _someone_ (and I have a distinct feeling it was one or both of the Weasely twins) wolf-whistled, so naturally I blushed, panicked, tried to evade notice and ended up missing a stair with my stupid cat-heel thing and plunged down the rest of the staircase. Thankfully, someone was there to catch me. Someone with a nice, warm, muscular chest, by the feel of it. I pried open my eyes and detached myself from their chest (somewhat reluctantly, because it was a very nice chest). I looked up to see who caught me. Wood. Guess I found him. Looks like all I needed to do was throw myself down a staircase.

"Er, thanks." I said, trying discretely to check I wasn't flashing (Ange had obviously lied about the kitten heel's magical no-trippy, no-flashing-allowed properties). "Nice save."

"Nothing you can throw at me I can't catch, Bell." Wood said, his charming Scottish grin flashing. But his heart didn't seem in it. His eyes had dark circles surrounding them, and his hair was looking – dare I say it – a bit flat. Ange and Leesh were right: Wood looked like he had been through hell. His eyes roamed around my face like he hadn't seen me in months. With a shock I realised, maybe he hadn't. I didn't know exactly how Cally's drugging had actually worked. After a few moments Wood hadn't released me, and I was a bit too breathless to complain, except Fred and George (damn them and their perceptiveness!) wolf whistled again.

"Er, I have to go and... be somewhere." I said, stepping back. .

"Of course. Yeah." Wood dropped his hands. "Probably best I disappear too. I have no idea what Fred and George's count down timer is going to do once it hits midnight." And with that he melted into the crowd. Damn. Now I was interested. What the Hell was the Weasely's count down timer going to do?

"Way to go!" George appeared out of nowhere and slapped my back. "That's the most he's said to anybody so far, and it's supposed to be his party." I realised I'd forgotten to wish him a happy birthday. Frick. Better go track him down. I won't lie: a small, nosey part of me wanted to see what the count down timer was capable of once it hit midnight.

I'd just escaped having to watch Fred and George imitate me throwing a Beater's bat at Cally (in all fairness it was quite a good shot) when I noticed the Portrait door shut. Wood. I clamoured out of the portrait (stupid dress, stupider heels) to find an empty corridor. Well there hell had Wood gone? I made to storm off towards the staircase towards the Great Hall, my heels clacking awkwardly, then stopped short. Maybe he was sneaking off with a girl? Maybe he doesn't want to be found? I dithered in place like some pathetic fan-girl. Katie Bell, you are the most gormless, chicken-shit girl I have ever met, I thought to myself, knocking my head against the wall. I spun back to the Fat Lady, who was eyeing me with an amused raised eyebrow.

"Sod it all to hell. _Grindylungs_." I muttered.

"Correct." She beamed, but made no attempt to swing open and admit me.

"Uh. Are you going to let me in?" I asked.

"No." She countered calmly, still beaming. "You think I haven't seen this sort of thing in all my years guarding Gryffindor's portrait hole? Go after him, you silly girl. He turned left into the hidden tapestry."

Honestly, I swear I clacked up and down every corridor both know and unknown to student-kind, looking for Wood. I felt like some tragic dame from a Muggle movie. On the positive side, I think I discovered some passageways even Fred and George don't know about. But I could only go looking for Wood for so long before my feet hurt. Damn it, if he wanted to hide, he could freaking stay hidden. I'm not going on a freaking midnight Easter egg hunt.

Where the Hell would I go if I were Wood? I looked through the window onto the crisp Hogwarts grounds below me. Of course.

The Quidditch Pitch.

No doubt Wood would be there, frantically practising for his final trial with Puddlemere tomorrow. The trial, if he won, that would make him the richest, youngest professional Quidditch player in the world. I debated retrieving my broomstick from my room and helping him practise. After a few hours of practising, maybe we'd be back on talking terms. After practising all night, maybe we'd even be back to the way things were before.

Well, too bloody bad. Reluctantly, I turned from the window and headed for the library. I had tests to study for.

* * *

**GAH-HA-HA-HA I am evil. But back to two chapters each update, you lucky sods. **


	37. They're Just Library Books

****

2nd part finished

Sorry I stuck you guys with YET ANOTHER cliffie last chapter (I don't think Aicaias will ever forgive me). What doesn't kill you can only make you stronger…yeah, I know that's like the lamest fob-off ever invented.

**Name**: Have deleted all unnecessary knowledge in my brain to make way for study learning  
**Age**: Knowledge is power, people  
**Hair**: Eh. I think I put a quill behind my ear at some stage, and now it's completely disappeared into my hair. Sccaarry…  
**Mood**: OhGodwhocareswhowasMinisterofMagicin1961Isweartheywereallsmokingdragondungandno-onereallyrememberswhatactuallyhappened.  
**Location**: Library

So. Yeah. I'm studying. Exciting stuff. Just me and some seventh-year book nerd scribbling ferociously in the far corner. Oh, and Madame Pince is lurking somewhere. Lucky me. I swear, we need to charm a bell on her; she's far too sneaky than she ought to have right to be. I would have made that my pet project for the night, except I _supposed_ to be studying. And definitely not scripting an imaginary conversation with myself and a certain Captain. Because I'm cool, and totally normal, and definitely spontaneous and I don't practise dialogue. Damnit, talking to Oliver was never difficult until stupid Cally came along. In light of all this unforeseen trouble she caused, maybe I did go too easy on her…

In more (arguably) exciting news, I officially worked through my entire supply of sugar quills about 2 hours ago. After that I tried gnawing normal quills in quiet desperation. OWL's anxiety and study pressure will do that to you. Personally, I don't recommend it. Newsflash: even though quills come from birds, they don't taste anything like chicken. But they do have the same affect as sugar quills: they keep me awake, and give me a distinctly upset stomach about half-an-hour down the track.

Anyway, at the moment I was sorta studying for History of Magic. Well, it started as studying. And then I started sketching all those horrible battles and wars they had with the giants and dragons and homicidal bowtruckles, and sort of inserting Professor Binns in the picture somewhere. Usually in front of say, a firing cannon. Clearly, this behaviour was not really conductive to my study.

In the end I was so fed up I 'accidentally' knocked over my ink bottle so I wouldn't have anything to write anymore stupid words with. Because despite my best efforts, I couldn't chew my way through my quill collection. So it was the ink that had to go. Unfortunately my spilt ink had some fallout on a library book. As soon as that bottle was airborne I knew I was in deeeep Mandrake poo.

"DESECRATION! BEFOULMENT! DEFILMENT! MOST UNCLEAN!"

GAH! Right in my freaking ear!

Merlin's rotted tooth, I never knew that woman had such a good arm on her. I bolted out of the library and I totally would have outrun Pince's stupid flying books, if I wasn't still wearing those heels. Stupid kitten heels. I have reason to believe the last name Pince said was an alias of Satan, which was taking things just a teeny bit too far, if you ask me. They're just library books. Not love.

I stumbled out of the library, thankful I wasn't seriously injured by some of those tomes Pince set on me. I think the only reason I escaped without a major concussion is that Hermione still had "Hogwarts: A History" out, and it was by far the thickest book in the library. I knew I should have Charmed that bell on Pince when I had a chance...

Anyway, I was clacking down the corridor back to the Common Room, trying not to attract Snape or Mrs Norris's attention. It was difficult. In hindsight, I should have just ditched the shoes, but they're Ange's favourite. Anyway, I was so busy concentrating on tip-toeing back to the Common Room and looking around for patrolling professors I ran into a wall. D'oh. Wait a minute - I know there's not a wall there. The reason I know there's not a wall there was because I ran into it last time, and it was actually…

"Hi baby. Long time no see," whispered a rancid voice.

Marcus Flint.

"You gotta stop throwing yourself at me, Katie. People will get the wrong idea." Oh gag. The only thing I'll be throwing at him is punches. And possibly my lunch. I pulled away from him and took several steps backward. I debated running even further, eyeing the distance between me and the hidden tapestry, but came to the sad conclusion I probably couldn't cover it without tripping over my heels.

"Why the hell are you lurking, Flint?" Memo to self: put a bell on Flint too. A big, heavy ball-and-chain of a bell, then toss him into the deep end of the Lake. That would probably make the Giant's Squid's day: giving him a melodic, jingling play-toy to devour.

"I'm here to collect my winnings on our deal." I must have looked a little lost at this point. Flint filled me in on all the sordid details, and I realised why I didn't remember: I'd been repressing it.

"You know, the deal where you persuade Wood to change you back to normal, and then we start dating." I think either someone's paraphrasing here, or they're completely deluding themselves, because from the hazy recollection I managed to dredge up, that was not the deal at all. My memory of the deal involved running Flint over with a golf cart. Dammit, where was that golf buggy when you needed it? "Nice of you to dress up for me and everything." Flint added.

"There was no deal, Flint." I finally managed to say, injecting as much cold aloofness and frigidity as possible, while seriously wishing I hadn't let Ange and Leesh make me over. You'd think I'd learn the first time they did that to me, but apparently not.

Flint reached out, trying to pin me to him, but years of Quidditch drills honed my reflexes well. I tried to side-step him. _Tried_ being the operative word. _Failed_ being the implied outcome. You see, when I was practicing these Quidditch drills, at no time was I ever wearing a freaking dress or freaking stupid kitten heels. As I attempted a dodge to the side, my foot slipped and twisted, collapsing onto my ankle. Holly freaking freak, I think I just broke my ankle. I completely lost my balance and ended up bowling into Flint even more. This is so not my day.

"Tired of running, are we?" Flint chuckled. No, not tired of running. Physically _unable_ to run. There's a difference.

Flint caught me in mid-stumble and pressed me against the wall. With one hand still keeping me there, he used his other to shove my head back. I didn't need an OWL in Divination to see where this was heading. I turned my head away, but he just pulled it back. Hard.

"No." I choked out, but it was too late. His mouth was already on mine. I won't subject you to the horror of describing it in detail, but just know; it was disgusting. His kiss was everything his whole self was: invasive and offensive and slimy and his hands were everywhere and oh God I think I'm going to vomit and choke and cry at the same time. I opened my mouth to do one of the three and Flint used it as an excuse to poke his tongue in there. Okay, I decided what I was going to do. I was definitely going to spew.

The impulse to chomp down hard on his tongue was strong, but instead I decided to use the most popular form of defence known to women worldwide: I attempted to knee Flint in the ball-sack. Unfortunately, my dress was a little tight, and I couldn't quite get my knee up high enough. Stupid dress. Instead, I brought my foot back down to the ground. Forcefully. On top of Flint's foot.

Now, here's a little-known, unadvertised secret about high heel shoes – if you stomp on people's feet with them, well, yeah…they tend to sort of get stuck in there. Eww. Sorry Ange, I don't care how cute these shoes are: I'm burning them.

Now, I'm not a cry-baby or anything, but I'm not going to lie; my ankle hurt pretty bad when I slammed it into Flint's foot. But whatever pain I was in, it seemed nothing compared to what Flint was in.

"You-" Flint growled, his face contorting in rage. And let me tell you, Flint face was ugly enough when he was wearing a normal expression. Now he looked downright scary.

He had his hand raised – to hit me or try to kiss me again I have no idea, but I didn't want to find out. I debated head-butting him like I had earlier in the year, but the angle was all wrong. Plus, I almost knocked myself out last time I did that.

I inhaled a breath to try for screaming, but I was still dry heaving from Flint's assault on my mouth, and I wasn't completely sure I was winning my battle not to upchuck the contents of my stomach. I'd run out of options. Left with nothing else, I squeezed my eyes shut and cringed.

**new part - yay**

And that's when the poor book nerd from the library rocketed down the hallway – pursued by Madame Pince's homicidal library books. The nerd had probably never even dog-eared a book in his entire life, but when Madame Pince sets her books on you, you run. Like hell. And the nerd ran straight into Flint. Poor guy. The fright alone probably killed him. To his credit, the guy managed to make Flint lose his balance - enough for me to slide out from Flint's arms anyway. Score one for me. Of course, seeing as I was in heels and a stuffed ankle, I couldn't really go anywhere, but at least the nerd's death was not totally in vain. Unable to support myself, I leant against the cold stone wall and I slid slowly to the floor. I debated crab-crawling away, but for the moment I was relishing not have Flint's face half an inch from my own.

Meanwhile, the nerd who had slammed into Flint straightened up, panting, his hair falling into his face.

"Sorry." He gasped, and turned on his heel to run again, Madame Pince's books fluttering above his head like parchment-y vampire bats. And then the nerd did a double-take, realising who he had slammed into. His eyes slid to me, sitting on the floor, clutching my ankle. I noticed the guy's robes were Gryffindor. Flint cracked his knuckles, obviously noting the robes as well. Confronted late at night with angry books and an even angrier Slytherin, if the guy was smart – which he should be because he was a nerd - he'd run away. Very fast. If purely for his own sake. He'd escaped death already once tonight. If he was smarter – which I was hoping he was, because he was a library nerd – he'd run away, then go get help for me. Instead, the guy turned back to Flint. Damn it. Obviously he wasn't smart. At all.

One of Madame Pince's hovering books made a dive for his head. Quicker than I would have though possible, he snatched it from the air. Man, with reflexes like his, we could use him on the Quidditch team. And then he did possibly the most awesome thing I have ever seen.

He upper-cutted Flint, using the feebly fluttering book. It caught Flint right under the jaw. And that book was thick. Like, War and Peace thick. Like, Muggle phone book thick. The book fell to the floor, flapping weakly. Flint stayed on his feet but staggered off to one side. The remainder of the flying books hung back, keeping a wary distance.

"That's for Bell." Said the nerd.

Bell? Hang on: I'd know that Scottish brogue anywhere. Wood? Merlin; I didn't recognise him with the flat hair. How ironic – I'd been practising a conversation for when I would finally met Wood, and he'd been in the room the whole time, disguised as the book nerd. I hope I didn't say anything embarrassing aloud…

Flint sagged against the wall, one hand on his chin. Had that been anyone else but Flint, Wood's hit would have been a one-hit knock-out. But Flint recovered faster than I would have thought possible.

"Back for some more Wood?" Flint swept some blood from his face with the back of his hand. "Thought I made it clear last year."

And then they sort of did the circling around each other thing which is so clichéd, but they actually did it. If Flint took another half-step to his left I could totally kick him in the balls from my sitting-down position on the floor. He didn't, so maybe he wasn't as dumb as he looks. I wrangled off a shoe and threw it at him instead. I missed. Oliver shot me a Look that said he couldn't believe I was a Chaser with a throw like that. Well excuse me: it's hard to get the angle right when you're sitting on a floor. And you can't get any wind up because a solid stone wall's behind you.

Just before Flint and Wood went head to head again, something in Wood's robes buzzed. If he was Muggle born I'd swear it was a mobile phone. Dimly, an off-tune version of "Happy Birthday" rang out. Flint backed off, confused, and Oliver fished the strange object out of his pocket. It was a miniature digital clock with the hand's pointing to midnight. The read-out underneath flashed 000:00:00. A countdown timer. Wood's aging counter the Weasely's made him for his birthday.

It began to vibrate, smoking slightly. Wood swore and juggled it from hand-to-hand, looking for somewhere to safely diffuse it. No solid-iron mailing bins were around, so Wood did the next best thing. He pegged it at a very surprised Flint. As soon as it hit him, both the timer and Flint disappeared.

"Where did he go?" I asked, struggling to my feet.

Wood lent me a hand getting up. "Wherever Fred and George would think it's funny to send me at midnight on my 18th birthday."

I considered the scenarios, shuddering. I couldn't quite manage the shuddering and the standing. Wood caught me before I fell, holding me securely against him so it wouldn't happen again. He looked me up and down for injuries.

"What happened to your foot?  
""I sort of broke it, trying to break Flints."  
Wood gave a half smile. "Nice shoes. So did you?"  
"No. I think I put a hole in it though."

Oliver raised an amused eyebrow. It was at that moment that Madame Pince gave a scream that was heard to echo around the castle. Wood and I had completely forgotten about the bespelled library books. They had taken advantage of our distraction and flown back to Madame Pince. Judging by the absence of the injured book Oliver had used to hit Flint with, I'd hazard a guess that the book had managed to crawl its way back to the Library, and Madame Pince had just discovered it. And now she was on the warpath.

"Run." Wood gasped. And promptly let me go.

"Gah!" Off-balanced with no support to lean on, I crashed to the floor. Wood was already several feet away by that stage. He looked behind himself in confusion. I glowered back at him, from my spot on the floor. Smiling to himself, he made his way back over to me.

"Smart move, Wood. Now how am I going to - " I was cut off by Wood literally sweeping me up off the floor and carrying me.  
"Um, Oliver, wouldn't it be easier just to heal my foot? Actually, if you let me get my wand, I can fix it myself." Anything so I wouldn't have to be freaking carried.  
"How well do you run in heels?" Wood pointed out. Touché.  
"About as well as you." I shot back, feeling sort of uncomfortable my face was so close to Woods. Not uncomfortable in a bad way, however.

I honestly expected Wood to dump me on the floor the second we got into the Common Room. Instead, he took one look at the party streamers decked around the room, the food still on the tables and several people passed out on the various chairs. Ange, Leesh, Fred and George were all asleep on the one couch. Awww.

"Girl's staircase still refusing to admit boys?" Wood asked.  
"It was last time I checked." Which was all of yesterday, when George tried to chase Ange up the stairs.  
"Right. We'll fix you up in my room then." And off he strode. Oliver Wood, man of action.

I sat on the edge of his bed, my eyes screwed up as Wood got his wand and a spell book out.

"Have a little faith." Oliver said, hurt. Yeah, well, I was taking no chances - I'd seen what happened to Harry's broken hand after Lockhart got to it. Wood murmured the incantation and my foot went hot for a brief second, then I could feel it again.

I opened my eyes and looked at my foot. Back to normal. Thank Merlin. I attempted to wrangle my shoe off but had no luck, so I brought out my wand and Charmed it off. Then threw it into Wood's fireplace and watched it burn. Burn, stupid kitten hells, burn in hell. Wood looked on in amusement.

"I am never wearing heels again." I clarified. "You are my witness."  
"Those heels were very…spikey."  
"All the better to stomp on Flint with."  
"Honestly Bell, I didn't know you had that much violence in you. Remind me not to get on your bad side."  
I raised an eyebrow at him archly. "And what you did to Flint?

"Yeah, well, he had that coming since last year." Oliver rubbed a faded scar on his chin darkly. "I'm just sorry the Weasely's timer Vanished him before I got a chance to do something serious."

"So am I." I was supposed to sound all threatening and menacing like Wood, but instead I sounded all wobbly. I tried to force the hysteria out of my voice before Oliver noticed.

"What happened?" Oliver demanded. "You're shaking." Nope, he didn't miss a thing.  
"Nothing." I choked back a sob. Stupid emotions. I could tell myself this crying and shivering was just a reaction to the adrenaline, but I still felt stupid.  
Oliver gently held my chin and directed it so I was facing him.  
"What did he do to you?" He asked softly.

I opened my mouth to tell him and suddenly the lunch I had been threatening to throw up on Flint decided it was better late than never to put in an appearance.

"Bathroom." I choked out, and Wood turned my shoulders and directed me towards his ensuite. Nice digs, I thought as I puked my guts out over the toilet bowl. Can't wait until I'm a seventh year.

I splashed water on my face afterwards, enjoying feeling clean again. The water was cool, almost cold, and I remembered that time with Wood earlier in the year in the Gryffindor showers after our spectacular loss to Hufflepuff. That time, it had been me trying to cheer him up. I latched onto that happy memory as I blotted the tears and the water beads off my face, ready to face Wood again. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, tense, not sure what to do, his eyebrows drawn in concern.

"Bell," he started, his Scottish brogue even more pronounced when he was trying to be gentle, "I'm not one to push if it upsets you, but I need to know what he did."

"Why?" I sat down heavily on the bed.  
"So I can decide how soon I want to track him down and kill him."  
That at least got a small smile from me. I took a deep breath and tried to think happy thoughts.

"Flint kissed me." I admitted. "After I broke my foot so I couldn't move and he got me up against the wall and - " I broke off, not wanting to remember his hot breath against my face, his coarse hands over my skin, bruising my neck. His greasy hair against my cheek. "It wasn't pleasant."

Wood actually couldn't speak for a few seconds. He tried a couple of times, but he didn't get past choked, one syllable noises. They sounded angry though. All the while his face was getting steadily darker with each passing word he couldn't choke out. Eventually he stopped trying to splutter out anything in English, and I think he may have reverted to Gaelic threats.

Which made him look incredibly, scarily angry but sound incredibly, awesomely hot. Objectively speaking, of course. And I didn't say he was hot – I said he sounded hot. Him and the rest of the Gaelic speaking nation. Nothing personal. I could have listened to Wood speak Gaelic all night – even if he was probably using words like 'rip' 'death' and 'gore'. Except my stupid tears had ideas of their own, and they put in another appearance. So Wood was sounding awesome, even if his hair was a bit deflated, and I was sobbing and gulping and wailing like a baby, and my eyes and nose were probably going bright red. Great. Wood saw my tears and shut up immediately, putting his arms around me. They were very warm. And comforting. And nice. And impressive. And the perfect way to stop me crying, would you believe.

"I'm sorry Bell. I should have been there."

"No you shouldn't. It was stupid." I wiped the last of my stubborn tears away. "I should have been able to look after myself." A small tear escaped and slid down my cheek. Oliver wiped it off with his thumb.

"Bell, you are one of the most independent people I know, but Marcus Flint is not someone you want to take on single handed. Last year, he pretty much beat the crap out of me and I wasn't even wearing heels." Wood in heels; funny image.

"Yeah, but you took on the whole Slytherin Quidditch team by yourself. Without a wand."

"No." Oliver smiled. "Only because Flint snapped mine. Took me ages to find a decent replacement too. If it hadn't been for the Weasely's and that map they carry around with them, I probably wouldn't be standing here today."

"Yeah, the Weasely's were the cavalry to the rescue when I ran into Flint one time when I was a five-year-old. But I so could have taken him out." Somehow we had both ended up reclining against the headboard of the bed. Well, Wood was. I was leaning more against Wood. He was stroking his fingers through my hair absent-mindedly.

"I'm sorry I turned you five." Wood blurted out.  
"You didn't."  
"No, but the point is I thought I did. I thought it was my fault but I didn't try to find a way to reverse the spell."  
"Yes, but that's because Cally did her brain-washing Imperius Curse Look on you."  
"But I didn't even mind. I should have cared that I was being a bastard and you were five. I should have looked out for you."  
"Oliver, I deserved to be five, the way I was acting. If I hadn't been eavesdropping at the door, Cally wouldn't have had a chance to hex me in the first place."

There were several moments of silence where we just listened to the roaring fire before Wood picked up the thread of the conversation again.

"Why were you eavesdropping at the door, if you don't mind me asking?"  
"I think I was angry at you."  
Wood was intruiged, "Why?"

"Because Ange and Leesh had just dragged me all over the Hogsmeade and spent hours doing something to my hair and face, and you didn't even notice – which is understandable because of Harry's Firebolt issue – but I'd just wasted my whole afternoon when I could have been playing Quidditch and - ." And I forgot what I was saying. I remembered feeling angry at Wood that day – upset even – and I hadn't realised why. But I don't think I told Wood the whole truth just then: I had been mad at him for not noticing. And I wasn't upset because I'd been made-over and missed out on an afternoon of Quidditch – I was upset because I'd been made-over and Wood didn't seem to care.

Wood seemed to be thinking in the silence too. "I did notice you." He finally admitted softly. "It took me a while, because I didn't recognise you."

"How could you not recognise me?" I interrupted, snorting in derision.

"Bell, did you look in the mirror that afternoon?" Wood said. "You looked…You looked gorgeous Bell, I won't downplay it. Much like how you look now. You're gorgeous anyway, there's no doubting that, but the make-up and the clothes and the hair," he teased my own hair at this point, "is just making it painfully obvious how gorgeous you are. And I'll support you if this is how you want to look, but…"

"But you think I look like a tart?" I finished for him.

"What? No. No. You look…beautiful. Too beautiful to be just Bell, my Chaser." He changed tack abruptly. "Do you know why I call you 'Bell'?"

I smile wryly. "Because you've forgotten my real name?"

"No." Oliver gave me his own crooked smile. "Because no-one else calls you that. It's a you-and-me thing, an inside joke. But right now you don't look like my Bell anymore. You look like someone else. A stranger. A beautiful, wonderfully breath-taking stranger, but still a stranger I don't know. Someone who won't play Quidditch, who won't drop and give me 300 stubborn push ups."

"Oliver Wood, you silly Captain. The clothes and the make-up and the hair were for you. Well, Ange and Leesh's depraved idea of cheering you up. I don't want to look like this. I'm glad you don't like it."

Wood smiled into my hair. "I do like it. But I don't think it's you."

"I think the heels proved that point already. I promise, from now on, no more dressing up. Just jeans and t-shirts. And I'd never slack out of push-ups, if it meant proving a point. And I'll always be playing Quidditch, until the day I die." I promised. "Except for the rest of the year. And the rest of my time at Hogwarts, if my mother has her way." Oliver was silent, but he kept on running his hands through my hair, lost in thought.

"Oliver?" I asked after a while.  
"Mmm-hmm?"  
"Did you speak Scottish before?"  
"Mmm-hmm."  
"Can you teach me?"  
There was a slight pause, and I could sense Oliver grinning. "Not those words."  
"Different ones then."  
"Tomorrow. _M' eudail_."  
"What does that mean?" More grinning.  
"I'll tell you tomorrow."

I was just about asleep when I realised something.

"Oliver, what were you doing in the library?"

"Just studying." For his trials no doubt. They were tomorrow after all. Looks like I might not find out what M' eudail means tomorrow after all. But I was already asleep by the time I worked that out, so I didn't really care.

**Who thought the nerd in the library was Wood? Hands up, who worked it out? Tricked you all! Wood is pretty damn unrecognisable without his trademarkedly awesome hair. **

**NB – M'eudail, the internet tells me, is supposed to be a Gaelic term of endearment. Like 'my darling' or 'love' or whatever. Like how French people say 'ma cherie.' So I'm sorry if it turns out I can't recognise a word of Gaelic from gibberish, (my translation was taken from the internet, remember) so if there are any Scottish people or native Gaelic speakers out there reading this and alternating between going 'what the f-- is she on about' and laughing at my complete hopelessness in broadening my cultural and linguistic experience, firstly I apologise sincerely, and secondly, I want to marry into your family. Because Scottish people are _awesome_. **


End file.
